


Someone New

by freyjawriter24



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale remembers but doesn't believe he's the same person, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Brighton 1954, Caernarfon 1962, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has forgotten who he was before, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Edinburgh 1949, First Kiss, Hastings 1066, Heaven, London 1946, London 2008, London 2015, London 2019, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, Protective Crowley, Ravenna 1820, Runnymede 1215, Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Scene: Globe Theatre 1601 (Good Omens), Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Stop (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Somme 1916, WARNING FOR PANIC ATTACK, tried to make this fairly canon-compliant to the TV series, updated rating from general to teen due to swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: I see your ‘Aziraphale forgets what Heaven was like Before but Crowley remembers’ and I raise you ‘Aziraphale remembers Crowley before he was a demon, but he believes he has fundamentally changed and will never be that person again, while Crowley remembers very little of his former life, and does not recognise Aziraphale’.***It had been rather more than seven days since the War in Heaven had sent a large portion of the population plummeting downwards. It wasn’t long to get over the grief of a lost loved one, but it was enough to lessen it slightly, and just enough to grow used to the idea that you’d probably see them again very soon, but that they would be different, no longer who they used to be.Still, it was unsettling when Aziraphale realised who the Serpent of Eden was – or rather, had been.





	1. Eden

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying out footnotes in this fic, so we'll see how that goes. There's only one in the first chapter, but if it seems to work ok I might add in more in later updates.

_ **Eden, 4004BC** _

It had been rather more than seven days since the Earth was created, and rather more than that again since the War in Heaven had sent a large portion of the population plummeting downwards to become something new and terrible. It wasn’t long to get over the grief of a lost loved one, but it was enough to lessen it slightly, and just enough to grow used to the idea that you’d probably see them again very soon, but that they would be different, no longer who they used to be. It was just barely enough to steel yourself for the inevitable meeting with a being of pure evil who looked, outwardly, like someone you had loved, on whatever level that was, but who you knew could never come back.

Still, it was unsettling when Aziraphale realised who the Serpent of Eden was – or rather, had been.

He didn’t notice that he was there at all, at first. He hadn’t been paying attention, was too busy staring out into the desert where the only two humans on Earth were walking away from the only home they’d ever known. Something at the edge of his perception told him a creature of some kind was joining him on the wall, but he was too focused to care which of God’s many harmless animals this might be, and by the time he looked round to the figure morphing into more demonic shape beside him, it was too late.

The demon who used to be someone Aziraphale knew was very different now, and yet far too much the same. As the snake’s scales faded into something that more or less resembled human skin, the features of that angular face and that beautiful, flowing hair were revealed, and they were exactly as they had been before the Fall.

The clothes were different, though – a quick look up and down showed him that they were of an entirely different colour and style to what any angel had ever worn – thick and heavy, and all greys and blacks. And then there was the matter of the tattoo, the tiny snake coiled beside the ear where Before there had been empty space. That was strange in itself; Aziraphale had never seen anything like it, in Heaven or on Earth. Angels often had lines or patterns across their skin – he himself was dappled with silver across his back and chest – but never pictures, never life-like representations of any other of God’s creations. The eyes were different, too, like they hadn’t quite remembered to shift back out of snake form. The angel watched a pair of shining black wings unfurl, and it was that which really hammered home what Aziraphale already knew.

He looked away, steeling himself for a moment – _it’s not him anymore, it’s someone else_ – and then looked back, ready to deal with whoever this new person might be.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what he had expected to hear the evil being inhabiting this familiar body to say, but he hadn’t quite been ready for that. And it sounded so _like him_. He turned away slightly, the automatic response of nervous laughter attempting to give him a moment to let his thoughts catch up. But he didn’t quite get there, still reeling with shock.

“Sorry, what was that?”

The demon turned, and the two locked gazes. _Oh_, Aziraphale thought, _your beautiful eyes_. They had once been shining beacons of angelic light, and although they had kept their stunning colour, they were now twisted, distorted into serpent eyes, the pupils stretched, the white subsumed by yellow.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat as he watched them connect without even a flutter of recognition, the being who owned them clearly having no memory of who he was. _Of course._ Heaven had been right. They really had forgotten everything they once were.

“I said, ‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon’.”

“Yes, yes, it did, rather.”

He wasn’t sure what else to say but that. At least the being who now possessed this body wasn’t being openly hostile – Aziraphale didn’t doubt the demon was truly evil, but at least it knew when to fight and when to stare pensively out over a world that was still in a state of great change. The pause didn’t last long, though.

“Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offense and everything.”

Aziraphale looked sideways at the demon. Those yellow eyes met his again. Then he lent in, ever so slightly, almost conspiratorially.

“I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.”

He looked at Aziraphale seriously, as if expecting an answer. Aziraphale had never been particularly strong on matters of philosophy, and questions... well, questions had always been rather more _his_ department. At least that didn’t seem to have changed.

_No, don’t think like that. Don’t look for what’s the same, he’s not the same. He will never be the same. Who he was has gone. There is nothing left of him. You shouldn’t even be talking to this new being who has taken his place. It is not him. He’s the enemy now._

Aziraphale decided to try to answer the question anyway, the habit of an existence hard to quit.

“Well it must _be_ bad...” He paused for an instant, his own question left unspoken, but the demon filled in, as quick and aware of Aziraphale’s unspoken queries as he ever had been as an angel. _No, don’t think like that._

“Crawley.”

“Crawley.” That was good, that was something he could focus on. It was different, not at all like his angelic name had been, and that meant he could distance the two beings in his mind. _Crawley._ A bit on-the-nose for a snake, but a good name, regardless. _Crawley._

He continued his sentence. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

“Oh, they just said ‘Get up there and make some trouble’.”

“Well, obviously. You’re a demon. It’s what you do.” He tried to focus back on the humans, tried to remember he was not supposed to be having a sociable chat with the demon now inhabiting his previous best friend’s body. But, of course, Crawley kept talking.

He was now listing places the Tree of Knowledge could have been planted instead. The moon was an odd, if interesting one. Aziraphale’s eyes traced absently skywards, despite him knowing that the natural satellite wasn’t visible yet today. That was an interesting question. Why _not_ put it...

“Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”

_NO._

“Best not to speculate,” Aziraphale said quickly, quashing the momentary panic. _This is what happened last time._ He was _not_ following this line of thought again. It was all too painful, and too soon, and too wrong, demonstrably wrong. He wasn’t meant to think like this, not as an angel. “It’s all part of the Great Plan. It’s not for us to understand.”

The demon looked away. Aziraphale kept his eyes fixed on the desert, and took a calming breath. Yes, this was ground he knew how to tread, now. They had explained everything, up in Heaven, after the War. They had explained that it was the angelic role to follow God’s commands, to follow the Great Plan, to question nothing and to obey everything. And it was all unquestionable, because God was God. God was...

Aziraphale paused for a second. Perhaps he could give Crawley the answer he had never gotten as an angel. Perhaps he could show him the word that would provide a reason for why all those ‘why’s had sent him tumbling downwards into fire. That could only be good, couldn’t it? That could only be right?

“It’s ineffable,” he said, trying to sound authoritative. He threw a glance in Crawley’s direction.

He had the demon’s attention again. “The Great Plan’s ineffable?”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said, nodding. He could do this bit, this was sure footing. He repeated the definition Gabriel had chanted over and over to the entirety of Heaven, straight from the Metatron’s mouth. “It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.”

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Had Aziraphale not been an angel, and a very well-mannered one at that, he probably would have cursed internally at that. He stammered and looked away.

“You did, it was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”

He didn’t know what to do. More uncertain sounds tried to make their way out of his mouth, but with no real substance to them. What was he supposed to do now? Tell him, like a good angel – no lying, no deception? Not tell him, not announce your horrible, kind weakness to an enemy who already knew you should be kind? Tell him, because he is – no, _was_ – your friend, and he deserves answers, especially after he Fell to get them?

“Lost it already, have you?”

He bit the bullet. “Gave it away.”

“You _what_?”

“I gave it away!” He could hear the whine in his own voice, the nervous indignation, like he half expected Crawley to laugh and tease him good-naturedly as his angelic counterpart would have done. But no, that being was gone. Crawley merely stared at him, a faint smile on his lips.

He felt the need to justify himself now. He babbled, explaining, giving far more answer than he had intended to, but not seeming to be able to stop. “I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“Oh, you’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale’s gaze snapped back to Crawley and he felt his chest flood with relief. “Oh, oh thank – oh, thank you.” He smiled widely, almost as brightly as he would have done Before. “It’s been bothering me.”

Just then a large beast that Adam had decided was called a ‘lion’ approached the couple in the distance. The two celestial beings on the wall watched as the humans used Aziraphale’s sword to fend it off, swinging the fiery blade towards its spiked-club paws.

“I’ve been worrying, too,” Crawley said, and Aziraphale couldn’t look at him for a moment, because he’d heard those words before, from that mouth, with almost those eyes looking earnestly at him, and he didn’t think he could cope if he turned and saw them there again now. “What if I did the right thing with the whole ‘eat the apple’ business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

The meaning of the words hit Aziraphale just as Adam plunged his flaming sword into the lion’s body. He frowned at both, watching the animal stumble as his own thoughts did the same. _Could_ a demon do a good thing? Was humanity being cast out _good_? Was it all part of God’s Plan?

“It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?”

Crawley was still talking, and Aziraphale was still watching what would soon be called ‘death’ occur out in the desert. The humans had only eaten plants up until now, and only fruits at that, so nothing had yet died, on Earth or elsewhere. It was fascinating, and a great deal horrifying. The humans clutched at each other and backed away in surprise at what they’d done. But they must know what this was, just as Aziraphale now did – they had eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, after all.

Crawley paused, and Aziraphale looked at him. The demon was smiling as if at a joke, and Aziraphale found the nervous laughter coming back to save him, giving him a second to process what Crawley had just said – except this time, his words were decidedly _not_ funny, and the angel’s face shifted quickly into scared shock. “No. It wouldn’t be funny at all.”

It was then that the rain began to fall. This was new – it had never happened before, ever, in the history of creation, and yet Aziraphale’s reaction was automatic, as if he’d been doing something similar for most of his existence[1], and this was the natural progression. He stretched out a wing, and found Crawley under it, closer than he had been, as if he had automatically moved nearer, driven too by some leftover innate response.

For an instant, Aziraphale wondered whether he should take back the wing, use it instead to shield himself, or pointedly remove it to show that they were not friends, they should not have been talking together, that he was not in the habit of idly protecting demons. But Crawley had been friendly, not antagonistic, and he hadn’t done anything to deserve being left out in the rain if that’s not what he wanted.

Aziraphale stopped short of following how true that thought felt to its very end, but decided to keep the wing up, even just in tribute to the friend that wasn’t here anymore. Even if that being no longer existed, there was a nice symmetry to protecting his shape’s new owner in much the same way as he had always done. And besides, he was an angel, and angels were supposed to be kind.

The angel left his own body unprotected, tipping his face up towards the sky and looking out over the dampening desert, feeling the weight of this newest of God’s creations on his clothes and skin, knowing he could remove it in an instant if he so desired. It smelled nice, this ‘rain’, and it felt good too, if a little cool. He probably wouldn’t mind being reminded of this kind of weather phenomenon in future, though the way Crawley was keeping himself held tight together under Aziraphale’s wing, he wasn’t sure the demon felt the same.

He shared his thoughts on the smell with Crawley, and the demon shrugged noncommittally.

“Each to their own, angel.”

“Aziraphale,” the ethereal being supplied.

“Aziraphale,” the demon said, smiling again, rolling the name around gently in his mouth. It sounded much the same as it had done Before, and yet a little different, a little not-yet-familiar-enough. “Good name.”

“Uh, thank you. She gave it to me.”

Crawley flicked his eyes away, but didn’t roll them, as Aziraphale almost expected him to after such a ridiculously pointless, tactless comment. “I thought as much. She didn’t give me mine.”

“No?” Aziraphale said, about to contradict him, before realising that _no, this is about his new name. His old name was God-given, but that’s not who he is now._

“I don’t remember who I was Before.”

Aziraphale thought he detected a hint of sadness there, but he could have been mistaken. The rain was beginning to get fairly loud and heavy, after all.

He was about to ask who had given him his current name – or perhaps he would have blurted out that he knew Crawley’s old name, and could tell him more, if he liked – when the demon turned away, and ducked out from under Aziraphale’s wing.

“Thanksss,” came a shout back through the rain, hurled over a shoulder. The sibilance continued longer than it should – but perhaps, again, that was just the background noise distorting it.

“Any time,” Aziraphale called at the retreating back of the snake that was now slithering down to curl up in the dry hollow of the nearest tree. Unfortunately, he realised he meant the words more than he perhaps should have done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 He had. In Heaven, Before, things were a lot more sunlight-and-fluffy-clouds than they were now, and there were prototypes of all sorts of things on display in various regions of the plane. Aziraphale had shielded his friend from bright sunlight and falling blossoms and strong winds in much the same manner as he did now. [return to text]


	2. Something Old, Something New

_ **Mesopotamia, 3004BC** _

For much of the events of what came to be known as the Old Testament, Aziraphale didn’t change his opinion of the demon called Crawley. He didn’t have much opportunity to, really – they met only sporadically, centuries between each encounter. But more importantly, he had no reason to. He knew what Crawley was, and knew it all the more sharply because he knew who he had been.

Crawley was a stranger, and an evil one at that – albeit a surprisingly friendly one. He was a demon, intended to cause trouble and tempt humans into sin. He was the Serpent of Eden, the originator of all sin, and thus adept at persuasion. He could hold a decent conversation, but had too much of a tendency to slide into disrespecting or questioning God to warrant talking to for very long. He was as good an opponent as any to have, Aziraphale supposed.

But the fact that he inhabited the form of someone he had once known so well, who he had enjoyed the company of for so long, who he had _loved_... well, that meant that it was difficult to spend much time with him. Not that Aziraphale had been planning on spending much time with his adversary on Earth. And he didn’t; they rarely met. But each time they did cross paths, the angel’s heart would leap and then fall when he saw those red curls and yellow eyes.

Crawley approached him in Mesopotamia, as he had in Eden. Aziraphale had been thinking about him – no, not _him_, who he _used_ to be – because it had gotten very close to being all too much.

There was a seed of unease in Aziraphale’s mind that was growing very close to something called doubt, and he was trying very hard not to think about it too much for fear that the doubt would manifest in questions very like that which had sent a certain angel plummeting from the only home he’d even known, burning his wings black and clawing out his insides until he was just a shell for something evil to fill. Aziraphale didn’t know how it had happened, exactly, and he didn’t want to, but he had seen the outcome, and that was off-putting enough for him to try to avoid that route.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, but the voice that broke his reverie came from the other side.

“Hello Aziraphale,” said Crawley, and of course he was there, of course _now_, when he was already too close for comfort to questions that contained the word ‘why’, the demon who embodied those questions would appear.

Aziraphale forcefully pushed away the part of him that wanted to ask back the questions that mouth had once asked him, deciding instead to take the demon’s appearance as a blessing. God was warning him of what would happen if he took that path, giving him the chance to avoid that fate by reminding him of the consequences. And so he focused on the beautiful, distorted yellow eyes before him and tried to ignore his own uncertainty.

Crawley joked about the sword incident as if it was something trivial, and Aziraphale chose to answer with honesty, and what he hoped was an indication of God’s forgiveness. God must know what he’d really done – She was God, after all. _But if She had never mentioned it again after that first query, well then, it must be ok, right?_ Oh dear, he’d found another thing he didn’t want to think too hard about in his present mindset.

The demon changed the subject for him, feigning a lack of knowledge about what was going on. Aziraphale explained, tight-lipped, and didn’t even realise Crawley was lying until the demon called the name of Noah’s son to get him to chase after a unicorn.

But he clearly didn’t know everything – he was shocked, genuinely shocked, when Aziraphale told him that the locals, _all of them_, would be drowned.

“Not the kids? You can’t kill kids!”

Aziraphale had nodded, lips pressed together to stop the unease that had bloomed to doubt from forcing its way out.

“Well, that’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do.”

Crawley looked appalled, but of course it wasn’t out of kindness or empathy – he was just confused about what his side were supposed to do now, if this somehow counted as ‘good’. It was a professional interest, nothing more – how could he become a more evil, obvious opposition to Heaven’s forces if murder was now the realm of the angels?

And that is probably how Aziraphale would have rationalised it if he had seen Crawley later, sheltering children from the storm. But Aziraphale wasn’t there – he had a mission in Australia and wasn’t due back until after the flood waters had receded. For which he thanked God.

_ **Golgotha, 33AD** _

The events of the New Testament felt slightly different.[2] Aziraphale found out, of course, that the demon Crawley had had a hand in some of it, most notably an attempted temptation of the Son of God Himself. But it hadn’t worked, and now... well, now here they were.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?”

She appeared from behind, at his left shoulder, as she always seemed to.

“Smirk? Me?” They knew each other well enough for _that_, surely.

“Well, your lot put Him on there.”

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley,” he said, as close to admitting anything as he would ever dare. But no – all he was admitting here was empathy, was the belief that it would have been nicer for poor Jesus if he didn’t have to have His wrists and ankles nailed to a cross and hoisted up to bleed out or starve or suffocate, whichever came first. Aziraphale wasn’t admitting disloyalty, nor even disagreement, really. Just discomfort, just uneasiness at method, nothing more.

“Oh, I’ve changed it.”

Aziraphale half turned towards her, confused. “Changed what?”

“My name.”

The demon kept talking, but Aziraphale’s mind had begun to race. _Changed it to what? Had she remembered? Would it be close to what it was before?_

He tried to joke about it. “Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”

“Crowley.”

_Oh._

Yes, that was good. A touch softer than before, a hint more sophisticated. Aziraphale wondered if she’d chosen it to fit well with the colour of her wings, or if that was merely a coincidence. But mostly he was just thankful it wasn’t a certain, specific other name. He had no idea what he’d have said if she’d chosen that.

They stayed there, the two of them, and watched Him die together. It was a long death, a painful death, and it tore at Aziraphale’s insides to see it. He wasn’t sure why he stayed, really – he hadn’t been told to. But it felt right that he should, that someone should be there to bear witness to this tragedy, particularly someone who represented the group who had helped put him there.

He had even less idea why Crowley stayed, but he didn’t question her on it. He was glad of the company, even if she wasn’t completely who he’d prefer to be stood next to at a time like this. But she was, quite literally, the closest she could be to being that person. And that was enough.

When the Romans were certain the Son of God was dead, Crowley turned and left without saying goodbye. Aziraphale felt her leave and moved to watch her go, and wondered what she would do now.

Not that it mattered to _him_, of course. But all the same.

He wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Perhaps it was the metaphorical step back that God had taken, moving herself away from being a direct part of human lives. Perhaps it was the changes to Heaven that Aziraphale was witnessing in short bursts whenever he went Upstairs to make a report and found yet another something new. Perhaps it was simply that there was some_one_ new on Earth now, the Son of God, and that in itself made the air feel different, made the world feel lighter, made the love and happiness all around pulse a little brighter. [return to text]


	3. When in Rome

_ **Rome, 41AD** _

Aziraphale hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. It was only eight years since the last time, which was almost the immortal equivalent of bumping into each other at the supermarket after having just said goodbye following a lunch date.

A lot seemed to have changed in that time, though – not with Aziraphale, but with Crowley. He was wearing what the humans would likely refer to as masculine attire again, except it was all a little out of place – the somewhat tasteless laurels, the badly arranged clothes, the strange, dark-lensed glasses.

He’d cut his hair short, too – although it still curled around his temples, gone were the long and flowing tresses of last time, of all the time Aziraphale had known him – him or who he was Before. The angel remembered what that hair felt like: soft and gentle, so calming to run fingers through, so enjoyable to plait and play with.

Aziraphale was surprised to see him, but not in a bad way – it was good to see an old... acquaintance. [3] A familiar face in the crowd. And Aziraphale was still riding the high of seeing Jesus resurrected, seeing him stand before his friends and smile and tell them of God’s mercy and forgiveness. That, and the exceptionally good food that Rome had to offer, meant that he was positively pleased to see the demon again, and for no other reason.

So he got up and went over, planning to engage in pleasantries, enquire into any demonic activities he should be thwarting in the area, and wish him a good rest of the century. But life is rarely that simple. Best laid plans, and all that.

“Crawley – Crowley?” The slip-up was an unfortunate start, but at least it was a name the demon knew and would have answered to. It could have been worse.

“Still a demon, then?”

Yep, there was the worse. What was that supposed to mean? Was he expecting somehow for God to have resurrected all Her Fallen angels at the same time as she saved Her Son?

Tactless, too.

“What kind of stupid question is that, ‘still a demon’? What else am I going to be, an aardvark?”

Aziraphale realised with a jolt that the demon did not share his upbeat mood. To be expected, of course – if Aziraphale was still being buoyed up by Jesus’s ascension, then of course Crowley would be feeling the opposite.

But now Aziraphale’s aim for the day had changed. Whatever Crowley was now, Aziraphale was still an angel. And angels were kind.

Before him was a being in distress, and it was only right for him to try to improve that mood. Demon or not, Aziraphale couldn’t get in trouble for spreading a little more hope and joy in the world, could he?

Whatever he had felt for who Crowley used to be was nothing to do with this – it was everything to do with him not wanting to stand by while the demon drank himself into oblivion, which looked very much like what he had been planning on.

Plus, Crowley had never eaten oysters before.

“Oh. Oh, well, let me tempt you to –” His eyes widened, and the demon turned to look at him, the barest ghost of a smile gracing Crowley’s lips.

“Oh, no,” he stumbled on awkwardly. “No, that’s – that’s your job, isn’t it?”

The demon didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he followed Aziraphale to Petronius’ restaurant, accepting the temptation with open arms.

It turned out there were quite a few things Crowley had never eaten. His diet seemed to be almost entirely of the liquid variety, usually fermented, whenever he bothered to ingest anything at all. So they tried oysters, and then snails, and then dormice, and then Crowley introduced him to a rather delicious vintage of wine.

Aziraphale had drunk alcohol before, of course – through much of history it was near unavoidable – but only really ever with food, in moderation, to try the taste rather than anything else. Crowley, however, seemed to drink it the way the humans sometimes did – for the fun of what happened when you drank a little more.

It didn’t have quite the same effects on celestial corporations as it did on human bodies, but if anything that simply made it more enjoyable, and although it took a lot more volume of liquid to achieve the desired state, neither of them were going anywhere for the rest of the day. So they made their way back to the room Aziraphale had rented, and sat at the small wooden table in the corner, and talked, and laughed, and drank.

Aziraphale had had a little too much, perhaps, because now everything felt soft and drifty and lovely. And he was here with – with _Crowley_, _that’s his name_ – and it was wonderful.

The alcohol had also loosened his tongue somewhat, and they’d been talking about human history and culture for hours now, just enjoying each other’s company, even though Aziraphale should know better.

_This shouldn’t be happening_, some distant part of his mind said. _He’s evil, he’s the embodiment of all sin, he’s not who you want him to be._ But the alcohol made it easy to ignore that voice, made it easy to instead focus on Crowley’s smile, which was back in full bloom now, his previous foul mood forgotten.

Aziraphale’s tongue was loose, and he wanted to say something important, so he opened his mouth. He opened his mouth, and a thousand things crammed their way to the front – _I know your old name, I know who you were, I remember your wings, I remember your eyes, I remember your hair_ – but somehow he stopped himself from spilling them all over Crowley, a being that wasn’t any of that, even if he looked like it. _He’s another person. An evil one. He is not that angel anymore._

Instead, something entirely unexpected slipped out. 

“What’s Hell like?”

Crowley looked at him strangely, head tilted and lips pressed together. Perhaps he was unsure if he should answer.

“Dark,” he said eventually, slowly, but with a precision and decisiveness only found in the very sober or the very drunk. “And crowded. And... damp, a lot of the time. Sure there’s fire, but it’s hardly the keep-you-warm type, and it’s not everywhere. And no one stretches their wings anymore. I’m not sure we even can, down there.”

“Same,” Aziraphale slurred. It could have meant ‘I haven’t stretched my wings for ages either’, or ‘We can’t stretch our wings here, on Earth, either’, but what he actually meant was ‘You can’t stretch your wings in Heaven anymore, either’.

It was a discomfort that had started sometime after Eden, and Aziraphale didn’t know what had instigated it or who was behind it. But the fact was that sometime during the early centuries of humanity, angels – and, presumably, demons – stopped being able to manifest wings on Earth.

For a while it hadn’t been an issue – wings didn't hurt when they were kept away, it was just that after a time they became uncomfortable, and it felt good to stretch them. Aziraphale got that chance whenever he reported direct to Head Office, and appreciated the sensation more for its rarity. But then he stopped being able to do it in Heaven, either, and no one ever said why. Not that he asked – he knew the power, the danger of that word – but the answer wasn’t freely given.

There was silence for a moment as Aziraphale pondered the power of such a tiny word, his eyes half-focused on something soft and red. Then –

“What’s Heaven like?”

The question was casual, spoken from the lips of someone sprawled in their seat, cup of wine in hand, eyes lazily tracing the lines on the ceiling. But it was laden with meaning, too, and after a second the gaze flicked back down to meet Aziraphale’s for an instant, before looking away again, almost embarrassed for asking. 

“White,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t ask the obvious question first, considering he was demonstrably already drunk enough to let them slip forth. But Crowley had asked his first, and he’d started answering now anyway, so he kept going.

“It’s white everywhere, and bright, like it’s always midday, but with white daylight, like it is on clear days in winter in Britain, not yellow or orange like it is on summer days here. And it’s big. Huge and empty and –" he put a hand to his mouth, physically trapping the next, forbidden word from coming out. _Lonely._

Crowley didn't seem to react to Aziraphale cutting himself off. He had reacted to the rest of his words, though – his full attention was on the angel, and he’d shifted to lean forwards on the table to listen. But as it became clear that the description was over, he retreated back to the pointedly casual sprawl that Aziraphale knew must crafted to hide himself. The fact that he’d ever moved out of it at all meant that his guard was down, at least a little. Maybe that would make him more open to certain questions.

“Do you remember anything... from Before?”

Crowley looked at him, then away. Aziraphale thought for a minute that he wasn’t going to answer, that he was going to ignore it and move on, or worse, leave. The angel’s mind filled with everything he wanted to ask, alcohol-drenched brain clamouring with the questions that might always go unspoken. _Do you remember the clouds, the trees, the wind, the wings? Do you remember me?_

“I remember it was... bright,” Crowley said, gaze focused tight on a spot on the wall. “And comfortable. I remember feeling safe and... and happy, and...” He trailed off, eyes flicking for an instant to Aziraphale. “And loved.”

The angel wanted to shout, scream, cry. _That was me! That was me, I loved you, I was there with you, we were together in Heaven long before we meet in the Garden. That was ME!_ He could have laughed in relief, he could have jumped for joy, he could have leaned over the table and –

And what? _This isn’t the angel you spent that time with._ Besides, Crowley probably meant _God’s_ love, the unending feeling of being cared for, protected, adored, which must be so obviously lacking now that it was gone.

He could feel himself arguing back, though. _But that he remembers that at all...? Surely that must mean..._

He realised he hadn’t responded to Crowley’s words. But the demon had looked away now, had broken the small moment that made Aziraphale think _maybe, maybe they’re wrong. Maybe they’re right about most demons but not about him. Maybe he’s not pure evil in the body of my friend, maybe he’s... still who he was. Changed, but still the same, still him, still an angel who asked too many questions..._

Aziraphale’s mind was racing faster than was advisable with this amount of alcohol in his system. He couldn’t take his eyes off Crowley, off the tight-curled hair, the relaxed posture, the sharp-angled face, the way his neck moved when he drank...

_No. Stop. No._

The angel shook himself. He’d had too much, clearly had far too much, and the little bit of imagination God had given him was running amok with it. _He is a demon. Demons are evil. Who his shape once was is lost, forever, irreparably. He will never be that person again._

He decided to drag himself back to safer ground.

“So where did you go first, after Eden, then? I think the first time I got off continent I went to the Americas...”

Crowley’s face softened at the change of subject, and he even began to smile as Aziraphale continued talking. When there was a pause for a response, he dutifully filled the gap, and in that way they continued the simple conversation they’d been having for most of the afternoon and evening.

Aziraphale focused himself firmly on what he was saying now, what he was going to say next, how much he was still drinking, and _not_ on the demon he was talking to. Not on the way he grinned and laughed at Aziraphale’s stories, not at the way he winked wickedly when he told his own, not at the way he felt so _easy_ to talk to, like being with an old friend.

After another hour or so, there was a lull in conversation, and Aziraphale picked up the strange little glasses from where they’d been abandoned on the table between them.

“What’re they for?”

“Huh?” said Crowley, looking up as if he’d been in a daze, a dream. “Oh, them. To cover my eyes.”

Aziraphale squinted at the lenses, then turned to face Crowley.

“Why would you want to –”

He stopped short, his own pale blues coming to rest on Crowley’s bright yellows. The glasses had been off for... hours now, surely, and yet Aziraphale was still surprised to see the slitted pupils now that he focused on them. Crowley nodded, and broke contact.

“It scares the humans, a lot of the time. I can sometimes pass it off as a genetic thing, not that most of them know what that means, but I still get a lot of screams. ‘Monster’. ‘Demon’. That kind of thing.”

“But you _are_ –”

Aziraphale realised his thoughtlessness as he was saying the words, and a piece of himself _screamed_ for him to stop. But the words were already out.

“You think I want to be?” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale gasped. He watched as Crowley’s face went slack, then angry again, then cycled through a hundred emotions so quickly that Aziraphale’s addled brain couldn’t keep up.

A shaking hand reached forward for the sunglasses, and the angel relinquished them without fuss. The demon who _didn't want to be a demon_ shoved them onto his face and stood suddenly, throwing his chair backwards.

Aziraphale’s mouth opened to ask him to stop, to stay. But _no. He shouldn’t._ He closed it again and looked down at the table, at the place where the jug met the wood grain, at the way the shadows fell in here.

“’M gonna sober up. You should too. Don’t wanna sleep like this, you’ll feel like Hell in the morning.”[4]

Aziraphale opened his mouth again, about to say that he didn’t sleep, that there was no need to, but he stopped himself again. He’d already shared too much of himself with this enemy, this demon hiding in another angel’s skin, he shouldn’t – _but was that what he really was? Hadn’t he just said –_

Crowley worked his jaw as if there was a bad taste in his mouth, then stalked to the door. Aziraphale watched him go, then pause, then half-turn back towards him, eyes covered by those strange little lenses.

“Thanks for the food tonight, angel. I... It was fun. Thanks.”

And then he left, and Aziraphale was alone again.

Alone, and thinking of wide yellow eyes and red hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 Acquaintance. Not a friend. Aziraphale was a being of pure goodness, he should not be thinking of a creature of evil incarnate as a friend. Regardless of whether or not that feels more accurate. [return to text]
> 
> 4 ‘like Hell’ in the sense that Crowley meant it was something along the lines of ‘like the inside of your head is crawling with demons that are either dirty, burning, scratch and lick at the walls, or all three’. Having been to Hell multiple times, and technically being from there, he was intimately familiar with it, and his hangovers seemed perfectly represented by the dark, grimy halls that were becoming darker and grimier by the century. [return to text]


	4. A Scattering of Medieval Meetings

_ **Wessex, 537** _

The king’s court was a wonderful place to be. It was full of beauty, art, stories, _love_. There were dances and plays and shows of martial prowess. There were knights who protected the people, a queen that ensured they were fed and clothed, and a king who distributed his wealth and power with such precision and awareness that everyone’s strengths were taken into account and no one could be jealous. It was almost a miracle.

It was centuries since he’d seen Crowley, but that was normal for them. Last time had been a glitch. And he shouldn’t care about that anyway. He _didn’t_ care about that. He hadn’t even thought about the demon in almost a hundred years.[5] He’d practically forgotten him.[6]

But Aziraphale was happy here, among those from a kingdom focused wholly on love, guardian to the king and the other knights as they fought against those who might disrupt the peace here.

He enjoyed the duels and jousts, undertaken by silver-clad experts with grins on their faces. He enjoyed the chance to swing a sword again, to prove to himself that he hadn’t lost his touch, despite the millennia it had been since he’d last seen his own holy weapon. He enjoyed the long rides through forests and countryside, the chance to see the local examples of God’s creatures in the wild, the opportunity to imagine this was just an extension of the Garden he’d first been stationed in. He enjoyed dappled sunlight and misty mornings, the way the rain hammered on the castle roof as he tucked himself into a corner of the library, the rare summer days when the whole court would parade outside in their finery to feel the sun on their skin.

What he liked most about humans, he had decided, was their creativity. Their ability to create things as wonderful and new and exciting as a round table, a happy court, a functioning, good-for-everyone monarchy.[7]

And their stories. Oh, their stories.

Arthur’s friends and family and neighbours and acquaintances had struck up a delightful culture between them of telling wonderful stories about their own and each other’s exploits. They were all nonsense of course – fantastical embellishments of ordinary occurrences. They featured all sorts of incredible creatures – dragons, goblins, fairies, unicorns[8] – and they made the people they were about – ordinary humans with a fun, heroic, imaginative streak – into living legends. It was myth-making about friends and relatives in real time, and it was immensely enjoyable to Aziraphale.

He attempted to write some of them down, or encourage others to do so, so he (or humanity) could keep them forever, but it was an expensive and time-consuming process, and most people laughed him off. _It’s just a bit of fun_, they said. _No one’s going to care about it a year from now. Besides, we remember the best ones. That’s what poets are for._

He knew they wouldn’t. He had listened to oral histories and storytelling for centuries, millennia, and yes, the best ones survived, near-intact, but not all of them. Not enough of them. Never, ever _nearly_ enough of them. _At least_, he thought sadly, _I will be here to remember them. Even if imperfectly._

There were threats to the kingdom, though. Of course there were. You never could have a paradise without someone attempting to bring it down. That should have been his first clue, really.

Word of the Black Knight came to court shortly after the commendation. The round table was assembled to discuss the stories – mainly threats, fear in the villages, talk of heavy fog and the clattering of metal on metal that came from within it – and Aziraphale was chosen to go.

Fear often embellished the words that came out of the mouths of humans, even when their culture was built on embellishing for fun. But Aziraphale was slightly surprised to note that the fog was not one of those. As he neared the encampment, the air got thicker and heavier and _wetter_, chilling his clothes and making everything feel just as eerie as it looked. Aziraphale and his companions didn’t feel the cold, though – that, he felt, was a reasonable miracle.

That didn’t stop the armour from being heavy and unwieldy, though. When he figured he was at the right place, he stopped and raised his helmet, peering through the gloom for the bandits he knew must be around here somewhere.

“Hello? I, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, am here to speak to the Black Knight.”

A figure appeared out of the mist. Not the tall, armoured figure he assumed he would be confronted with, but a hunched one, hopping awkwardly with bent limbs and making only grating, low sounds that could barely pass for speech. Aziraphale hoped he was alright.

“Oh, right. Umm... Hello.”

Several more humans were just visible through the apparent cloud they were all stood in. They watched him warily, and had he been human, Aziraphale might have been intimidated. But he wasn’t human, and he wasn’t a coward. He left his sword sheathed, and moved forward towards the first of the crowd, who was motioning him further into the fog.

“I was hoping to – to meet with the Black Knight?” He added a smile to the words, hoping to convey as much of a non-threatening presence as he could whilst fully dressed and armed for battle.

For a second he didn’t think he was going to get anywhere with this – he was just being led further into a group of people who apparently hardly spoke any language at all. But then another figure came out of the mist, and this was more like it – a full suit of armour, painted stylishly black. The outfit was an excellent work of craftsmanship that Aziraphale thought fairly demonstrated the art that humans could put into anything and everything – just look at those smooth, sharp angles. Whoever was inside must be cold, though. They didn’t have a cloak or furs like Aziraphale did, just lots of cool metal.

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death.”

_Wait._ He knew that voice. Wasn’t that –

“Is that you under there, Crawley?”

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale winced at the mistake, but he wasn’t just going to apologise to his mortal enemy (both eternally – _he is a demon, after all_ – and in the short term, as the Black Knight) in front of witnesses, and he was also aware it could have been much worse. His frustration turned a little into anger instead.

“What the Hell are you playing at?”

Instead of responding, Crowley turned slightly to address his followers.

“It’s alright, lads, I know him. He’s alright.”

Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to say to that. He tried not to read into it too deeply, but he watched as the armed guards either side of Crowley looked at each other and lowered their weapons, and somehow felt that this wasn’t how interactions between the forces of good and evil were ever meant to be. _What would Gabriel think if he saw this now?_

Now Crowley answered him. He’d bothered to make the situation more comfortable before lapsing into conversation, like they were somehow still in Rome, still at Petronius’ new restaurant, like nothing had changed between oysters and foggy Wessex. _He’s being... nice._

“I’m here spreading foment.”

“What’s that, some kind of porridge?”

“No! I’m, you know, fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur’s been spreading too much peace and tranquillity in the land, so I’m here... you know, fomenting.”

It wasn’t a particularly dramatic thing to be doing, all things considered. Scaring a few villagers might provoke small acts of sin, Aziraphale supposed, but it would feed into those amazing stories, and surely all it would really mean would be more knights being heroic, being inspired to help people, pushing more good into the word. If anything, Aziraphale being here instead of a human was sort of cancelling Crowley’s inadvertent good out.

And anyway, the humans were doing so much good _without_ Aziraphale, his presence was hardly needed. If Crowley _was_ doing something evil, then here he was to stop him, and the humans could go along as usual being virtuous. Either way you looked at it, there wasn’t actually much point in either of them being here. Not that he was going to tell Crowley that.

“Well, I’m meant to be... fomenting... peace.”

“So we’re both working very hard in damp places and just cancelling each other out?”

_Well, now_ he’s _said it._

“Well, you could put it like that.” He paused for a second. “It _is_ a bit damp.”

“Be easier if we both stayed home.”

And there it was, right there, the shining nugget of evil that proved once and for all who and what Crowley was. Tempting an angel to sin! Sloth, abandonment of duties, _lying_!

Not that it would make a difference, really. They were cancelling each other out, after all. If he _knew_, if Aziraphale could _guarantee_ Crowley wasn’t out committing evil deeds when he promised he’d stay home, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to go out and counter them either. Maybe they could both find another pub or rented room to hang out in with a jug of something strong until their pointless duties had been ‘finished’...

_No!_ Why was he letting Crowley get under his skin like this? Why was he even _considering_ going through with this?

“No! Absolutely not! I am _shocked_ that you would even imply such a thing!”

There, he’d said it now. If he said it loudly and indignantly enough, he would believe it.[9] “We’re not having this conversation. Not another word!”

Aziraphale turned and marched off, back towards his horse and page.

“Right,” Crowley said behind him.

“Right!”

The angel left, thinking very hard about how to successfully ride his horse in this cold, damp, heavy armour, and _not_ about skipping work to hang out with Crowley. How _dare_ he even suggest –! The absolute _gall_ of the demon, the complete and utter _disrespect_ for how things were done –

Aziraphale didn’t even notice he’d given them both another word until he was halfway back to the palace. He bit back a curse, and started mentally planning his report back to Arthur. At least it would be good news – he was fairly certain Crowley wouldn’t be hanging around Camelot much longer. But that didn’t do much to make the angel feel better.

Aziraphale arrived back at the palace to find a memo waiting for him, unobserved by any eyes but his own. He ripped it open and read it, searching for guidance. But nothing Heaven ever did seemed to be aimed at helping Aziraphale in any way. The note simply thanked him for his work, referenced the recent commendation, and then said he was released from this post and could essentially go where he pleased again until the next set of instructions came through. Nothing more.

He left soon afterwards. He didn't go back to Wessex for a long time, and when he did, every place there had different names, and he wasn't sure which of the stories left behind were myth and which were truth, and there was no one who had been there left alive to tell him.

_ **Hastings, 1066** _

Over the course of the next few centuries, Crowley seemed to be wherever Aziraphale turned.

He found him in Russia, the demon already tempting the man the angel had been sent to bring to the light.

He was found by him in New Zealand, the angel beaming at a job well done as the demon groaned over his same lost cause.

She was in India, tasting spices with the flick of a tongue, throwing demonic looks and nothing more to achieve everything she had set out for.

There he was in Hawaii, sunset reflecting off his yellow eyes, looking out over the waves, nothing he did seeming to counteract the ease with which the angel was succeeding here.

He was in Brazil, for the same local dispute as Aziraphale, looking very much like he wanted to be a snake again.

There she was in Japan, in the same little settlement as the angel, cherry blossoms caught in her flowing red hair.

They saw each other in a snowstorm in Canada, both grumbling their way through the job, wrapped in layers and layers of furs.

They saw each other in Egypt, Libya, South Africa, Madagascar.

They met up by coincidence in Bulgaria, Portugal, Denmark, Greece.

They were both in Greenland together, then China, then Argentina.

Somehow, they seemed to end up everywhere together.

At some point, he had to admit that it seemed that every few decades, they were being assigned work that perfectly balanced each other out, and it was absolutely pointless them both being there to do it.

Which was why they were now here, getting drunk in a very empty pub together, ignoring the battle a few miles up the road that they were both apparently meant to be overseeing.

“Okay,” Aziraphale slurred. “Let’s just say, for sake of argument, that you’re right.”

“I am,” put in Crowley.

“Then how would we go about it?”

“Well...” The demon paused, as if he hadn’t quite thought he would make it this far. He considered, swaying slightly in his seat.

“Well, we could go together. Be there, like we are now, so we still know what happened, but not... you know, not take part. Just sit and watch. Or throw around some miracles so both our Head Offices see we’re still doing something in the area. Or just... hang out at the pub.”

Right now, that sounded like the smartest thing anybody had ever said in the world. Aziraphale took another deep drink from his cup and nodded.

“But what if it’s... What if it’s somewhere we don’t want to go? If it’s far away, or, or, or it’s less nice than it is where we actually are, what... what about that?”

Crowley hesitated again, thinking. He pulled off his sunglasses and threw them casually on the table, running a hand over his face and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “We could...”

“We couldn’t _not_ go,” Aziraphale said. “We’d _have_ to go.”

“Would we?” the demon said, eyebrows lifting almost comically high on his forehead. “Only _one_ of us has to, really. As long as we, like, took notes or something.”

Aziraphale giggled. Crowley looked affronted. This was an old joke. “I do know how to write! It’s not my fault I have more important things to do.”

There was a pause, and they both drank deeply. The jug filled up of its own accord, the bartender being noticeably absent and therefore unable to do it the human way.

“You were saying?”

“Uh...” Crowley had to think for a moment, the last few seconds moving sluggishly through his brain. “Ah! Yeah, we could, we could go separately. Take it in turns, or something. Report back to each other so it looks like we were both there. Fling around a few miracles as if we were each other.”

“As if we were each other?” Aziraphale had been slumped down so far in his chair he was almost horizontal, but he struggled upwards now. “What... what does that mean?”

“Well, I suppose... nah, it’s okay, stupid idea, really.”

“What?”

“Nothing, seriously.”

“No, I want to know what you were going to say!”

Crowley sighed, his eyes slowly shifting to the ceiling, where they stayed for the duration of his next words.

“I was thinking we could take turns. Both go to where our Head Offices want us, in the same place. If it was me, I’d do my temptation, then I’d do your guiding-people-to-the-light thing. If it was you, you’d do the same. You’d do your miracle, and my tempting.”

“Ha! I knew you were just trying to corrupt me.”

Aziraphale watched as the yellow eyes darted down to meet him. Something in that face, newly revealed by the lack of those ever-present sunglasses, seemed almost worried, almost scared. It tugged at something deep in Aziraphale’s chest. But then Crowley saw the smile the angel was wearing, recognised the teasing for what it was, and his expression softened in relief as Aziraphale let out another little giggle.

“Is... is that a yes?”

Aziraphale straightened his face out and tried to be serious. “It’s a maybe. Let’s just do the together version first, ok? Just to test it out. That’s safer – if they find us, we can pretend to be enemies fighting each other off. The other thing... I don’t want you getting caught doing miracles. Who knows what would happen to you then.”

Crowley looked very much like he wanted to say something, but his mouth moved silently, in shapes that weren’t quite words. Aziraphale tried to think back over what he’d said, in case he’d offended somehow, but the sentences were slow to come back to mind, and he still had more he wanted to say.

“So yes,” he continued. “We can do that. Next time we have something both to do in, in Paris or Cairo or Delhi, we’ll go there together. And cancel each other out by doing nothing, rather than doing lots and getting the same result. Yes?”

“Yesss,” Crowley said. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. “Yeah, sounds good, angel. Sounds great.”

Aziraphale smiled happily and refilled his cup, settling down into his seat again. “We probably have a little longer here, my dear, before we have to sober up and go back outside. So what else have you been up to? Met anyone else interesting recently who I should know about?”

“Uh, erm, ah...” Crowley took a large gulp of his drink, then another, then a deep breath. “Well, there was this one woman the other year, who...”

Aziraphale listened as Crowley launched into his story. He listened, but he also watched, the alcohol allowing him to look where he would have restrained himself, had he been sober. He watched the way the red hair rippled, the dim light in the pub shining off it. He watched the long-fingered hands gesture occasionally to punctuate a point, admiring the way they moved, with the same serpentine elegance the rest of him did. He watched the flash of those beautiful yellow eyes, the wicked glint of them, the devilish slits of the pupils. He watched the smooth, sharp jawline, the active motion of his eyebrows, the bobbing of his throat as he spoke. He watched, and he listened, and he enjoyed.

And he didn’t even think of who Crowley had been before.

_ **Runnymede, 1215** _

The first coin flip landed in Aziraphale’s favour, which meant that Crowley was the one headed to the settlement near Windsor, a whole continent away from where they currently were. The plan was for Aziraphale to wait here, enjoy the scenery and relax for a while, refrain from doing miracles or otherwise counteract them with temptations, and then when Crowley got back the two would share details of what had happened at each end, and report back to their Head Offices as usual.

But, of course, Crowley was evil, which Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten when he agreed to this while drunk a century and a half ago. Not that the demon hadn’t given him ample opportunity to back out since then – he’d actually checked in multiple times, every time they’d hung out together instead of working extra hard to cancel each other out, and more often besides. But the angel had to admit there was a grain of truth in what Crowley said, and so he was determined to follow through on the plan. And now, here they were, and it was going into action. Crowley would do both the blessings and the curses. And Aziraphale couldn’t sit still.

So he followed him. It was dishonest, he knew, and yet it was also very much a _good_ thing, for the purposes of furthering _good_, of making sure the enemy was not corrupting humans more than agreed, of making sure that his promise would be fulfilled. That didn’t stop the feeling of guilt rising in his chest. _Crowley trusts you_, a voice inside him said. _Why can’t you trust him back?_

_Because he’s a demon, you idiot_, another voice returned. _He’s evil. He easily could have spent the last millennium trying to convince you of his trustworthiness, of his secret goodness, and been lying the whole time. You would be an idiot to trust him. It’s only sensible that you follow him now._

Aziraphale kept himself sane by telling himself it was only once. If everything went along completely fine, he would trust Crowley in future, and leave it at that. Every coin flip would be final, every individual trip taken for two would be undergone alone, and he would believe every detail that Crowley gave to him afterwards. If the demon was proven to be untrustworthy this time, then he would cut off all contact and they could be mortal enemies again forever. Easy.

_Life is never easy. Never._

The journey was simple enough. The weather was favourable for the crossing, and the travel took as little time as it could have. Horses were still uncomfortable to ride, and the carts they pulled still bumped over every minute dip and stone in the road, but no problem befell the travellers, and soon Runnymede was in sight.

The king was there; that was the reason they were here. The king, his barons, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Apparently there’d been a bit of a ruckus while Aziraphale had been away, and the lot of them were now going to sign some Great Charter or other to stop it all from going wrong again.

Crowley’s instructions were much the same as his own. _The humans will sort out the technical details themselves, so you don’t need to interfere with them, just make sure they’re not interrupted. Make sure the signing takes place. Make sure they’re all there and they don’t leave until it’s over. Make sure it happens._

As far as Aziraphale was concerned, the fact that both Heaven and Hell wanted the same thing from this event was hardly worth mentioning – Hell had obviously misinterpreted the possible outcomes. How could anything bad arise from a group of people agreeing with each other, in writing, to be better? How could anything evil come from that?

But that was precisely why it was this occasion that he’d finally felt able to test the next phase of what they were now terming their Arrangement. If Crowley was meant to be doing what he was now going to do anyway, then that was fine. All he had to do was hand out a small blessing or positive miracle for every extra little temptation he did along the way, and not betray Aziraphale by going full evil-doer-tempting-everyone-he-met on him, and it would be fine.

It would be fine. Which was why Aziraphale was currently trying to disguise himself from the being who knew him best in the universe (besides God), hiding around corners and watching Crowley go about his job. _Their_ jobs.

He needn’t have worried. Crowley was methodical in his business. He watched people, made note of what they were doing, what they were likely to do next. He made sure everyone behaved for long enough to be in a room together and sort out the words they would use. He made sure everyone who was meant to sign the thing did the signing. He kept track of all the barons as they moved around the area, and when it was finished he made sure they all left safely, without impeding the spreading of the news that it was over, it was signed, it was done. King John had complied with the wishes of the barons, and Magna Carta was in force.

But afterwards, Crowley didn’t leave straight away. Aziraphale worried about what that meant. He watched from a distance as Crowley wandered the English countryside, moving slowly, meanderingly towards London, towards a boat away and sea passage back to where he thought Aziraphale was waiting. He was in no rush. _What does that mean...?_

Then the angel realised what he was doing. And somewhere inside him, it felt like his heart was breaking.

Crowley was giving out miracles. Not to tempt or for anything selfish, but for quite the opposite. Aziraphale watched as a child about to fall and hurt themself miraculously recovered their footing at the last instant. Split bags of grain were repaired. Stolen cattle were returned. Dangerous potholes in the road were filled in (though this one could be put down to Crowley’s own comfort, Aziraphale reasoned). A hundred little things that a demon shouldn’t do, shouldn’t _want_ to do, were being done, and it looked like none of them were being repaid by temptations.

_Why is he doing this?_

Aziraphale followed the red-head through England, watching as a stream of love and happiness bubbled up in his wake. People smiled around him, unaware of his demonic nature. They thanked him for catching pots that definitely hadn’t been caught, were definitely in pieces a second ago, but were now unbroken. They thanked him for pointing lost visitors the right way, for offering advice to those who asked for it, for volunteering help to those who looked like they were struggling. They didn’t see him to thank him for the spare coins that appeared in their purses, for the removal of the pest infestations they had had, for the suddenly more-structurally-sound houses they lived in and no longer had to worry about – they thanked Someone, but not Crowley.

_He looks... happy. He’s enjoying this. He’s... being good._

_Is that how he sees me? Or is that what he’s wanted to do for so long, and I’m just his excuse?_

_Is he...? Can he even be...? Maybe he’s not...?_

_He isn’t completely evil._

By the time they got to London, Aziraphale was enraptured by this side to Crowley that he’d never truly been privy to before. He almost forgot he was supposed to be abroad somewhere, relaxing and trying to do nothing good or bad, and he had to race to catch an earlier boat and get back first.

He spent the entire journey thinking about the look of soft happiness on Crowley’s face. The smiles he gave the children, the grins he gave their parents, the look of near-complete peace he had when walking through anywhere quiet and green. It tore Aziraphale’s heart to shreds.

_He saw you watching_, a small voice said. _He must have known you were there. He was only doing that so you’d see him._

He squashed that voice down hard, firm, holding it there until it had gone, breathed its last. Never again would he distrust Crowley, never again would he question his word when he made a promise to Aziraphale. Not for this, at least, not for anything to do with miracles.

_Maybe it’s because he remembers Before. Or he wants to remember, wants to be like that again. Maybe he is just a little bit good._

He squashed that voice down as well, but not enough to kill it. He kept it held tight, tucked away somewhere only he could see, and tried very hard not to look at it too much.

When Crowley swaggered in, Aziraphale feigned interest in a biblical manuscript he’d already read several times, looking up only at the end of the page, and then discussing Crowley’s trip as if he knew absolutely nothing about it.

“What have you been up to then, angel?” he asked, as they finished preparing their reports to Head Office.

“Oh, nothing much,” he’d said casually. He gestured to the book. “Reading.”

He wasn’t quite lying there, either. He’d just missed out a word.

_Reading you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 By which Aziraphale meant it had been approximately seventy-eight years since he’d last been completely absorbed for hours or days in analysing everything Crowley had said, every hint that Heaven might be wrong about what had happened to the Fallen, about what demons were, about who Crowley was. But seventy-eight rounded up to a hundred, and little thoughts like ‘I wonder where he is’ or ‘I wonder what she’s doing’ didn’t really count. So it wasn’t really lying. [return to text]
> 
> 6 He hadn’t. He couldn’t. Ever. [return to text]
> 
> 7 Aziraphale wasn’t wrong about the humans creating all that. It had technically been their idea. But the execution of it was in no small part due to his being stationed there by Heaven – almost without realising it, his belief in their goodness, in this new system of theirs working, was holding it together, helping maintain stability. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know how much he was doing. The commendation was nice, though. [return to text]
> 
> 8 The latter, of course, had existed once, although not on this island, and not since shortly after the Flood. The animal’s inclusion in the tales the humans told each other was definitely nothing to do with Aziraphale accidentally letting something slip after a particularly good veal and ale dinner. [return to text]
> 
> 9 Which ‘he’ Aziraphale was trying to convince was unclear. [return to text]


	5. Conscience Does Make Cowards of Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is from _Hamlet_, Act 3, Scene 1 (line 84), part of the ‘to be or not to be’ soliloquy.
> 
> (The notes at the end of this chapter aren’t just footnotes this time, so keep an eye out for that.)

_ **London, 1601** _

Tudor England, Aziraphale decided, was an interesting place to be.

It was the stories that drew him, mostly, as it often was, but there were other things here too. The fashion, for one.

Aziraphale had never been interested much in what clothes humans wore, and found it both easier and more comfortable to keep his hairstyle pretty much the same. But occasionally there’d be something he picked up that he liked, and would wear for a while – like that pin in the shape of golden wings, currently in the back of a drawer somewhere, waiting to come back into style. And lately, there’d been a fair few items on offer that he’d liked the look of, the feel of, to wear. He’d started to experiment with nice fabrics, embroidered patterns, even bringing a little colour into his wardrobe – hints of blue, mostly. He enjoyed feeling like he looked nice, these days.

The food was interesting here, too. Not _excellent_, not _amazing_, but interesting and decent. It was often the visual art of the food that was most interesting, especially as sugar became available in the waning years of Elizabeth’s life. Besides, he could easily – increasingly easily, due to the ever-impressive human ingenuity of the era – go abroad for a treat or two.

But by far the best thing about Tudor England was the theatre. Aziraphale’s love for stories of course extended into physical expressions of it, but for so long here they’d been limiting themselves to Biblical retellings – all well and good, and really he should enjoy them more, being an angel and all, but they did get a bit repetitive after several centuries of medieval city cycles. Here, though, they were going further, pushing boundaries, even constructing themselves playhouses specifically for the purpose of performing in.

The Globe, of course, was a favourite. Not just for the fantastical array of performances that went on inside, but for its beauty as a theatre, for its central place in local culture, for its interesting patrons and constant change. Aziraphale couldn't help but marvel over Shakespeare's command of language,[10] and after the first, made sure he was there for every premier of a new play.

Which is why he’d chosen it as the meeting point for his latest rendezvous with Crowley.

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here.”

Aziraphale felt his heart lift at the words.

_Oh, he’s here._

He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped thinking of Crowley in terms of ‘that demon who used to be an angel who I knew’ and started thinking of him in terms of ‘Crowley. He’s a demon’. But it had happened, and now, even though they saw each other semi-regularly, Aziraphale rarely thought of the version of this friend that had previously occupied this form. Because that was the truth, he now knew – that lost angel was a previous version of the demon, not a different being altogether. He was certain on that front.

Aziraphale realised he was smiling, staring at the demon, and he shook himself and looked away. Crowley might still be the same being he knew in Heaven, but he was a demon now. He was a demon, whether either of them wanted that or not, and so that was that. That was his lot in life.

And besides, Crowley didn’t remember Before. It wouldn’t do to be staring at him like that. What if he saw? What could he say then?

“This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it?” Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale looked over to see the playwright coming quickly towards them. “No wonder nobody’s here.”

“Shh, it’s him. It’s him.”

“Prithee gentles,” William Shakespeare said, addressing them as politely as their clothes suggested he should, despite their chosen ticket level of ‘groundling’, rather than the posher seated option. “Might I request a _small_ favour? Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?”

_Ever the actor._

Aziraphale tried to play along all the same. “You mean like, when the ghost of his father came on, and I said, ‘He’s behind you!’?”

“Just so. That was jolly helpful. Made everyone on stage feel appreciated.”

Aziraphale could _feel_ Crowley sigh next to him.

“A bit more of that,” Shakespeare finished, and moved back towards the stage. “Good Master Burbage, please. Speak the lines trippingly!”

“I am wasting my time up here!” Burbage hissed as his writer. Well, Aziraphale had to step in at that.

“No, no, you’re very good! I love all the... talking.” It was a weak finish, but better than nothing. At least it now looked like Richard wasn’t just going to walk out of the performance and refuse to play Hamlet ever again.

He still wanted a little more praise, though. “And what does your friend think?”

Aziraphale beamed and looked to Crowley, encouraging him to follow his lead. Then he registered Burbage’s words.

“Oh, he’s not my friend.” _They mustn’t know, no one should know. What if one of the humans accidentally told someone?_ “We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.”

Aziraphale didn’t dare turn to Crowley, but his eyes shifted sideways, and he could just see him at the corner of his vision. The demon was smiling, but not genuinely – almost dangerously, like a snake.

“I think you should get on with the play.” The smile didn’t reach his voice either.

Shakespeare was looking at the two of them oddly. He seemed to agree with Crowley’s words, though. “Yes, Burbage, please. From the top.”

The young man began his soliloquy again – “To be or not to be, that is the question...”

Aziraphale decided to heed William’s words earnestly. He wanted audience participation, audience participation he would get. “To be! I mean, not to be!”

Burbage paused for a moment, willing to accept the interaction.

“Come on, Hamlet!” Aziraphale continued, turning, grinning, to Crowley, in hopes of getting him to join in. “Buck up!”

The demon was staring at him through those little lenses, but the angel could still see his eyes widen and his head shake ever so slightly at the, admittedly slightly over-exuberant, interruption of the play. Aziraphale couldn’t help but keep smiling, though. He liked this sort of theatre, where they enjoyed you gasping in shock or laughing aloud or daring to say whatever came to your mind.

The speech continued, and Aziraphale watched, entranced. He hoped Crowley would enjoy this one as much as he did, gloominess notwithstanding. “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety.”

_Very poetic_, Aziraphale thought absently. _I wonder whether he writes._

More lucidly, he thought, _true, too, I suppose – no matter how many plays he acts in, as no matter how many characters, I could watch him all century._

Shakespeare then headed off, muttering something, and Aziraphale became aware that the two celestial beings were now alone. Crowley started circling, as seemed to be his habit recently, his restless feet wandering about the angel’s immediate vicinity, orbiting. That meant he was ready to talk business.

_No more Hamlet, then._ Aziraphale kept facing the stage, but shifted his focus almost entirely to Crowley now.

“What do you want?”

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?”

He recognised this mood in the demon now. And why else would they be agreeing to meet up, anyway? “You are up to no good.”

“Obviously. You’re up to good, I take it?”

Aziraphale had to give him that one.

“No rest for the... well, good.”

Now, to business. “I have to be in Edinburgh at the end of the week. A couple of blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform.” Perhaps he could get the demon onside, make this one a favour. “Apparently, I have to ride a _horse_.”

Crowley made a sympathetic noise. “Hard on the buttocks, horses. Major design flaw, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale didn’t bother commenting on that.

“I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week.” _Ah, there we are._ “Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

Aziraphale considered this. “Doesn’t sound like hard work.”

“That’s why I thought we should...”

Crowley was looking at him. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance. It wouldn’t do to seem _too_ willing to do this again. Regardless of how many times they’d already done it.

“Well, bit of a waste of effort, both of us going all the way to Scotland.”

Now for his move. It was chess this, or a dance. Each had to make their own moves, skirting around the subject, not seeming too committed, not seeming too knowledgeable, lest someone overhear.

“You cannot actually be suggesting... what I infer... you are implying.” _There, that’s subtle enough._

“Which is?”

Aziraphale didn’t look at him. “That just one of us goes to Edinburgh, does both.” He looked sideways, caught the demon’s eye for a second. “The blessing and the tempting.”

“We’ve done it before. Dozens of times, now.” _Well then. Trust a demon to completely fail at subtlety._ And he was still talking. “The _Arrangement_ –”

“_Don’t_ say that.”

But here was the explanation, and yes, that helped a little. “Our respective Head Offices don’t actually care how things get done. They just want to know they can cross it off the list.” He still didn’t understand Aziraphale’s nervousness, though.

“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry. They’ll _destroy_ you.”

Crowley seemed unfazed at talk of his potential imminent, total destruction. “Nobody ever has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh.”

Aziraphale inhaled, knowing his answer already. But still, it was dangerous. It was too big a risk, there was too much chance of failure, there was a strong possibility they could be found out. A terrifying likelihood that Crowley would be obliterated for good. And yet they hadn’t been discovered so far, all these years, these decades, these centuries. And why should he be so worried for a demon’s wellbeing when the demon in question didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned? So yes, yes, he’d do it. Of course he would.

“Fine. Heads.”

Crowley flipped the coin. Aziraphale watched it spin, watched it land, and didn’t bother checking for signs of a miracle to turn it one way or the other. He’d stopped bothering with that years ago – Crowley never cheated.

“Tails, I’m afraid. You’re going to Scotland.” _Ah. Oh, well._

Aziraphale looked up again, ready to continue enjoying the play. But the audience area was nearly empty, and so Shakespeare’s annoyed muttering carried perfectly clearly across the space.

“It’s been like this every performance, Juliet. Complete dud. It’d take a miracle to get anyone to come and see _Hamlet_.”

_Well, that’s a way he can make it up to me._

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley. He knew the demon had heard the words too, and he allowed a little hopeful pleading to arrange itself on his face.

There was barely a hesitation. “Yes, alright. I’ll do that one. My treat.”

Aziraphale beamed to cover his smugness. “Oh, really?” Somehow he could always get things to turn out his way with Crowley, even if the coin flip didn’t always go the way he wanted.

The demon turned to go. “I still prefer the funny ones.”

The angel looked back to the stage and remembered his grapes, popping one into his mouth to hide his satisfied grin.

Aziraphale went north the next morning. Crowley had left the details of his instructions from Hell in a note only someone celestial would notice, neatly scribed on a piece of parchment and left folded on the table in Aziraphale’s rooms for when he got back from the play. They weren’t difficult, and were perfectly placed, really – he could get it done almost at the same time as his own instructions from Heaven. Very convenient.

When he got back, Crowley had apparently become part of the theatre scene. Aziraphale found him in a pub near the Globe, smiling good-naturedly at the gaggle of slightly drunken playwrights and actors around him. He looked up brightly as soon as Aziraphale came near the table.

“Hello, angel. How was Edinburgh?”

Aziraphale shrugged, hoping to seem casual. “Fine. Very pretty, as usual. Damp, a little dirty, but otherwise fine. What have I missed?”

“Ah, not much. Bill’s latest play has done alright for itself, though, hasn’t it, Bill?”

Shakespeare turned at the sound of his name and smiled widely, eyes a little glazed from drink. “Wonderfully! Just – wonderfully! It’s a miracle, I said so!”

Ben Jonson slapped him on the back. “Excellent work, my man. Even if it is a damned _tragedy_. You know I prefer your funny ones.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows pointedly at Aziraphale, the edges of his mouth twitching into a tiny smile. Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes, but sat down next to the demon anyway.

The angel recognised most of the people in the group, but hadn’t met very many in person, so Crowley set about introducing them. They were all creatives, all people of the theatre in one way or another – playwrights, poets, actors, or all three. They were also all well on their way to being very drunk.

Crowley had been matching them almost drink for drink, but having the benefits of a demonic corporation rather than a human body, it was affecting him far more slightly. He offered a cup to Aziraphale and filled it himself, looking over his sunglasses to grin wickedly at the angel. Aziraphale smiled back in return, and drank. He didn’t often spend time among humans like this, but it was nice to be invited, and this seemed like a good group to be part of. And it seemed like it would be a rather enjoyable night, at least.

Aziraphale watched the interactions around him with interest as the night went on. He watched the way certain gazes flicked between one another, the way eyes met and then glanced away, the way arms were thrown around each other and hair was ruffled and laugher spilled from drunken lips. He enjoyed watching human relationships unfold. But then that was what the theatre was all about, wasn’t it?

Crowley seemed to, in the short time he’d been away, have made friends with a large number of people in the acting scene. Benefits of being a demon, the angel supposed – understanding people was fairly important for doing the job, and would be equally useful for making friends as it would for tempting them. But Shakespeare – _Bill_ – seemed particularly to hold him in regard.

Bill didn’t – _couldn’t_ – know that Crowley had had anything to do with the sudden success of _Hamlet_, but the playwright nonetheless seemed very grateful to the demon. When Aziraphale pressed him later, Crowley muttered something casual about ‘helping him with a couple of words’ and then quickly changed the subject.

Still, the angel was happy the two had made friends. It meant he would have someone to talk to in the centuries to come when he wanted to reminisce about the plays and poems this fifteenth-century writer produced, when no one else would be around who remembered him.

The night wore on, and eventually they all went home, the humans parting ways with laughter in the street, the angel and demon separating to their own rooms with a smile of thanks for the evening. They wouldn’t spend too much time together, just in case, but they knew they would see each other around.

When Shakespeare’s next play was a comedy, Aziraphale went and nudged Crowley, asking if this was the one he’d helped with.

“No...” he said slowly, looking a little confused himself. “No, it wasn’t in this one.”

The angel asked the same question after each of the next few plays, and got a similar response every time. Eventually he stopped asking, assuming Bill must have decided not to use whatever it was Crowley had given him. Or perhaps it had been cut by the censors.

He did notice something familiar in Enobarbus’s declaration in Antony and Cleopatra a few years later, but by then Crowley had been called away on Hell business, and he wasn’t there to ask. The angel decided that was probably a sign he shouldn’t think about it too much.

By then, Tudor England had dissolved into Stuart England, and things were once again changing fast. At least there would always be stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 Angels aren't often emotionally moved by the stories of humans, even when the angel in question has spent much of creation seeking them out and appreciating them as highly as a celestial being can. But lately, and with Shakespeare's work in particular, Aziraphale had found himself reacting far more dramatically to the characters and their situations. He was completely absorbed by the histories, despite their focus on story over accuracy. He laughed loud and hard at _Much Ado About Nothing_. And he sobbed his heart out at _Romeo and Juliet_, without quite knowing why. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**  
The line Crowley says in the show (and Shakespeare scribbles down to use later) is “Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety”. This is from (or rather, in-universe, later appears as) part of a line spoken by Domitius Enobarbus in _Antony and Cleopatra_. Antony is due to marry someone else, and Mecaenas asserts that this means “now Antony must leave her [Cleopatra] utterly”. Enobarbus replies “Never; he will not: / Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale / Her infinite variety: other women cloy / The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry / Where most she satisfies; for vilest things / Become themselves in her: that the holy priests / Bless her when she is riggish.” Basically, Cleopatra will never lose Antony’s interest, he will never be over her, nothing can change that. There’s an [excellent meta](https://fragiledewdrop.tumblr.com/post/186099056460/age-does-not-wither) that explains this in more detail and argues that Crowley was consciously talking about Aziraphale in this moment, or at least that this line was specifically chosen by Neil/the show creators because of what the full line says about Aziraphale and Crowley’s opinion of him. I definitely think that is the case, but my headcanon (canon for this fic) is that Crowley later got talking to Shakespeare, Bill asked about that line, and Crowley (possibly after a few drinks) poetically expanded on his description (very consciously thinking of Aziraphale) to create the full line (which Bill of course copied down). In my story, Crowley was surprised the line wasn’t in the next play after _Hamlet_ (either _Twelfth Night_ or _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, sources conflict) because he’d told Shakespeare he liked the comedies better, especially _Much Ado_. But Bill was saving the line for something closer to _Romeo and Juliet_, because even though he didn’t know the full truth about our favourite celestial couple, what Crowley said more closely fitted into a romantic tragedy. It was only when Shakespeare got to thinking about the name of the person who had given him this wonderful line (Anthony... Antony) that Bill realised which story he wanted to use it in. The rest is, as they say, history.


	6. To Leave, Frenchly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There’s another little section of notes at the end of this chapter that aren’t just footnotes, so don’t skip that if you want a little bit of insight into this chapter’s title.)

** _Paris, 1793_ **

Aziraphale was bored. And hungry. And lonely.

He hadn’t seen Crowley in far too long. Lately – in the past few centuries – they’d been meeting up every handful of years, either by chance or on purpose. But more recently – this century, in particular – the time between each encounter seemed to be stretching more and more. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the demon in over a decade. And that was starting to grate.

Not that he _missed_ the demon, of course not. But it was good to know where he was, to check that he wasn’t getting up to _too_ much mischief, to ensure that there wasn’t any hint that their, ah, _Arrangement_ might be found out. Besides, it was always nice to see a familiar face.

He wanted crepes. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could really get in London – not proper ones, anyway, not the way they made them in Paris. But the Parisians had gone and got themselves into a spot of bother these last few years, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he particularly wanted to go wading in there during all that.

Then again... Perhaps that was what he needed. A bit of a change of scene, making sure he didn’t stagnate from staying in one place too long. When was the last time he’d gone abroad? A while, yes – maybe he should go, then. Just for a quick trip, just for a day or two, just for some crepes.

All of this had nothing to do, of course, with the fact that Crowley had mentioned, the last time they’d spoken, that he would soon be going to Paris. Nothing at all.[11]

And so, to Paris he went. The journey went smoothly; no one questioned his outfit, because he didn’t want them to. The benefits of a little angelic suggestion.

In Paris itself, though, he was shocked by what he saw. He shouldn’t have been, really – he had seen what humans could do, had several thousand years of experience on that front – but newspapers and pamphlets tended to exaggerate certain details, so he wasn’t fully prepared for everything he saw, for what had happened to the beautiful romance of that city, now drenched in blood. And, in his shock, he let his guard down.

The humans saw him.

Aziraphale was not the sort of angel to swear, really, so he didn’t curse himself for his lapse in concentration, for taking his eye off the ball. He just sighed, rolled his eyes, and let them lead him into the Bastille. _Oh, well done, you silly angel. That’s what you get for not dressing for the occasion._

He could get out whenever he wanted, of course. But what was the point in that? He needed to convince these humans to be better, to do good, as an angel should. Get them to turn away from their murderous tendencies and move towards the light.

Nothing to do with him waiting to see if Crowley would show up.

It didn’t seem to be quite as easy as he expected, though. For a start, the French he remembered was passable for ordering a wide variety of foods, but was very limited in its application to general conversation, particularly when his side of that conversation was meant to be ‘please don’t discorporate me, save your soul’. The prison guards were not very receptive to his attempt to communicate through snippets of English and mangled French mixed with wild gesticulation.

Aziraphale was starting to get nervous now. It didn’t help that the guillotine was literally right outside his window. Or that he was pretty sure ‘aujourd’hui’ meant ‘today’. Or that Jean-Claude the executioner was heading right for his cell.

“Uh, monsieur. C’est un grand... mistake. Err, erreur. Bit out of practice at the French. Je pense, quelque chose –”

The Frenchman interrupted him. “I speak English.”

_Well, thank goodness for that. Right, now to convince him of my innocence and his need to stop killing people. Should be simple.[12]_

“Listen to that. The fall of the guillotine blade. Is it not _terrible_?”

_Ooh, there might be a chance with this one after all._ “Yes, cutting off that poor woman’s head, _terrible_.”

“It is Pierre. An amateur. Always he let go of the rope too soon.”

_Ah. No chance at all, then._

“You are lucky that it is I, Jean-Claude, who will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders!”

“Look, this is all a terrible mistake. I don’t think you understand –”

“I have good news for you.”

Aziraphale’s heart leapt for an instant. _Yes?_

“You are the nine hundredth and ninety-ninth aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand. But the first English.”

Well, none of those things were quite true. Even if they did get him under the guillotine – which Aziraphale had no intention of, and he would be willing to use whatever miracles necessary to stop that from happening, Gabriel and his rude notes be damned – he wouldn’t _die_, not in any permanent sense. Discorporation was uncomfortable, yes, even painful, but it couldn’t really be likened to human death in any meaningful way. And he wasn’t English. And he wasn’t an aristocrat, no matter how he was currently dressed. He just liked to feel elegant at the moment, that was all.

Jean-Claude moved towards his neck.

_Right. Enough now._

“Please, no!” Aziraphale said, jumping to his feet and crossing the cell away from his captor. Jean-Claude looked at him in surprise. “Dreadful mistake, discorporating me. Oh, it’ll be a _complete_ nightmare...”

He dreaded to think what Gabriel and the others would say if he _did_ get discorporated. First of all they’d ask why he was in France, which, granted, was an easy answer, if a lie – large levels of sin required direct action. But then they’d ask why he got caught, why he didn’t leave, why he allowed himself to be chained and dragged and pinned down until the blade fell...

It didn’t bear thinking about.

The blade did fall, again, outside, and the executioner turned to the window to drink up the sound of the cheering crowd.

How anyone could _enjoy_ that noise was beyond Aziraphale. “_Animals_.”

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel, only humans do that.”

Aziraphale’s heart _soared_.

“Crowley!”

He turned towards the voice, a beaming smile already on his lips – but then stopped at the sight of the demon.

He was all limbs, draped over himself in the corner of the cell, tight-fitting dark clothes shining with silver buttons, hair scraped dramatically back and perfectly coiled either side of his head, those little sunglasses concealing the bright yellow eyes. He looked, in short, lavishly demonic.

“Oh, good _lord_.”

What _was_ he doing, dressing like _that_? Well, tempting, probably, something along the lines of lust and seduction and impure thoughts. He _had_ always been very indirect in his temptations.

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop.”

_Oh. He remembered._

“Well, I was.” He paused for an instant. “I got peckish.”

“Peckish.” The voice was deadpan, a disbelieving query so flat it wasn’t even really a question.

Aziraphale decided to dive straight in and own it. It was the crepes, and the brioche. The delicious, delightful sweet treats the French humans had dreamt up and perfected. The food, that wonderful food, had _tempted_ him over here, in the midst of a revolution. Yes, that was it.

If he focused on the food, if he could convince Crowley that French cuisine was the only reason he was here, then maybe he’d believe it himself.

“So you just popped across the Channel, during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble?” Crowley didn’t sound convinced. “Dressed like that?”

“I have standards!”

He played up the note from Gabriel, too. Crowley would empathise – or at least sympathise – with him on the bureaucracy.

“Well, you’re lucky I was in the area.” _Nothing lucky about it_, that tone said.

“I suppose I am.” _Thank you for coming._

Now he should probably give him an out. Aziraphale had told his half-true story, now Crowley should be given the chance to tell his. “Why are you here?”

“My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance.”

_What?_ “So all this is your demonic work?!”

“No! The humans thought it up themselves! Nothing to do with me.”

Aziraphale believed him. Straight away, easy as that. He _knew_ it was true. How did he know that? Why did he believe him so easily – a demon, of all people?

_Because you’ve seen him. You know what he’s really like. You know who he really is. You know he wouldn’t intentionally cause something as horrific as this. That’s not him._

As if to reinforce Aziraphale’s internal thoughts, Crowley clicked his fingers. The chains around the angel’s wrists fell to the floor, and he felt a weight fall off him.

Aziraphale rubbed as his newly freed wrists. “Well, I suppose I should say thank you. For the, uh, rescue.”

Crowley jumped to his feet in the most snake-like way possible. “_Don’t_ say that. If my people hear that I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes.”

“Well, anyway, I’m very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?”

“Looking like that?”

_That was a yes._ Aziraphale made a show of rolling his eyes. He did rather like this outfit, after all – not that he couldn’t easily recreate it via miracle later, but it was still the principle of the matter. He much preferred buying clothes than miracling them up. And he did like the way he felt wearing it.

Still, he switched clothes. Not entirely – he was _not_ giving up those shoes to anyone, he’d just have to remember to cloak them from human notice, and the ruffles were simply a matter of style. After all, he did have standards.

Aziraphale took his place at his friend’s side. Crowley raised his eyebrows a tiny fraction at the casualness of the switch.

“Well, it barely counts as a miracle, really.”

The angel saw the corner of the demon’s mouth twitch slightly. Then Crowley raised both arms and clicked his fingers. The noise outside resumed, and now two French guards were entering the cell and dragging off Jean-Claude, who suddenly seemed incapable of normal speech. The celestial beings went unnoticed.

“Dressed like that he’s asking for trouble,” Crowley said slyly. “What’s for lunch?”

_Finally._ “What would you say to some crepes?”

The two left the Bastille and headed towards a lovely little café that was serving the best crepes in Paris, the sounds of the guillotine and the crowd shouting “échappé!” echoing behind them.

Aziraphale hadn’t _missed_ Crowley. But he was awfully pleased to see him.

** _Ravenna, 1820_ **

When Aziraphale caught the first flash of brilliant dark red hair shining in the summer sun, he decided it was his turn to sneak up on the demon from behind.

“Fancy seeing you here!”

She turned with that ever-present serpentine elegance and surveyed the angel through her stylishly-shaped glasses, a smile turning up the corners of her lips.

“Angel,” she purred. “How wonderful to see you.”

“What are you doing in Italy?”

“Oh, you know...” Crowley gestured lazily towards a group of people crammed into a rowing boat. “Keeping an eye on them. Making sure they get into trouble.”

“Ah. Well, I’m supposed to be keeping them out of trouble.”

“Well, then.” The demon peered over the top of her sunglasses and caught the angel’s eye. “Looks like we’d just be cancelling each other out.”

Aziraphale watched the group of friends wobbling and laughing together out on the water. There were too many of them in the boat, and it looked liable to capsize any moment, especially with the amount of movement its occupants were currently doing.

Byron was speaking loudly, gesticulating to emphasise the importance of his points. “_We_ say ‘take French leave’. Because that’s what they do – leave early, without asking, without saying goodbye, without gaining permission. But the _French_ have started to say ‘filer à l’anglaise’, which is just the opposite – to leave Englishly!”

Mary was listening to the conversation with detached interest, her husband lapping up everything the other man said with a kind of childish earnestness. They all found this kind of language play intriguing and entertaining – all being writers, they may have all been making mental notes to perhaps reference it at some point in their next work – but they each expressed that feeling very differently.

“And now the Italians are copying the French and saying 'andarsene all’inglese' – as if the French weren’t the ones who started it all in the first place!”

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley again.

“Yes, it rather looks that way.”

The demon smiled, small and soft. It made something in Aziraphale’s chest flutter, stirred the slightest of memories of something very similar a long, long time ago, but he pushed it away.

“Have you eaten?” Aziraphale asked.

“Angel, you know I haven’t.”

“Well then, we should go somewhere. I’m sure that lot will be able to look after themselves for the duration of a small lunch, at the very least.”

“You’re just not interested in hanging around because you know they won’t be writing any more poems or novels on a boat like that.”

Aziraphale tried to restrain himself from rolling his eyes and found himself grinning instead. “So is that a yes to lunch?”

“Of course.”

She swept herself gracefully away from the riverbank and Aziraphale found himself following in her wake, watching her snake-like movements as she led the way back to the street. The angel found himself wondering if she could still transform into that version of herself, the snake he’d first met in Eden. Either way, it was clear this corporation had never forgotten its roots in that flexible, free-flowing form.

They made their way to an exquisite little restaurant with a miraculously free table right in the window, overlooking the interesting array of passers-by outside.

“So, how’s the bookshop going?” Crowley asked, once they’d settled themselves into their chairs and ordered drinks.

“Very nicely,” Aziraphale said proudly. “It’s starting to look really rather wonderful. Although some of the humans have started up a very unfortunate habit of trying to _buy_ some of my collection.”

“Yes, well, that is one of the pitfalls of opening a book_shop_.”

“I know, but, well, I couldn’t very well open a _library_ now, could I?”

There was that little soft smile again. “No, angel, you couldn’t.”

Lord Byron, the Shelleys, and Teresa Guiccioli suddenly ran past, laughing, completely sodden. They must have finally flipped the little rowing boat, then. Aziraphale briefly considered going after them, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. They would do alright together. And he’d be able to find them again easily enough later, if necessary. Besides, he was just about ready to order.

A couple of hours and a beautifully decadent lunch later, the angel and demon found themselves wandering the streets of Ravenna arm in arm. They pondered going to visit the positive menagerie that was Byron’s current residence, then decided against it and went for a walk down beside the river again.

The afternoon sun twinkled brilliantly across the water, and Aziraphale sighed happily. It was good to see Crowley again – it always was, if he was honest with himself. The angel liked spending time with her, no matter what they ended up doing. Even just existing in the same space together for an hour or two made the years of absence easier.

Crowley pointed the way to a small secluded spot on the bank, and they made their way over. Once hidden from the majority of human sight, Crowley flopped surprisingly elegantly onto a patch of soft grass and pulled off her sunglasses.

“So, anything exciting going on in London I should know about? I haven’t been in a few years, been too busy following Byron around.”

Aziraphale shrugged, settling down beside her. “Much the same. They got a new king in January. Some sort of political kerfuffle the following month, I didn’t really follow it. I’d just gotten a wonderful new read in...”

And so it went. The angel talked for hours, the demon occasionally contributing something but mostly just watching him and listening. Aziraphale liked the attention. And he liked watching the way the slowly setting sun changed the colour of Crowley’s hair – from bright red to fiery orange, to soft copper, and then to deep, night-kissed ruby.

Those gorgeous yellow eyes were there, too, always watching him, always paying attention. Aziraphale’s eyeline had a habit of wandering while he spoke – gaze drifting while he remembered a detail, vision following the trail of Crowley’s dress through the grass as he told a long-winded story – but those beautiful eyes were always there whenever he looked back at the demon’s face, showing how attentively she was listening, how interested she was in what he was saying. He felt his face gain a little heat each time, but he ignored it. It was just nice to be listened to.

There were other memories of times like this, of course. Other versions of those golden eyes looking at him as if he were the most interesting thing in all of creation. But curiously, those memories were slow to resurface lately. Crowley was Crowley, and anything that had gone before hardly mattered when they were together like this. There was no longer a bittersweetness to anything that reminded Aziraphale of the angel Crowley had been. There was often not even a recognition that there was anything to be reminded of, because there were so many more memories of them together on Earth, now, that they had softened whatever blow those old moments used to have.

Aziraphale simply enjoyed their time together, and when they finally parted, in the early hours of the morning, it was with a warm smile and an assurance that they would see each other soon, because of course they would.

** _London, 1862_ **

Aziraphale read the note with glee, paused only to kick a frustrating customer out of the shop and to reward the messenger with a coin and a display of precise sleight-of-hand, then hurried out to meet his friend at the park as soon as possible.

‘The usual place’ was St. James’ Park, of course. Crowley was already there, looking out over the water with a pensive expression. Aziraphale walked up, carefully hiding his pleasure at seeing him. _Clandestine meeting. Hide in plain sight. Keep it low-key. Be careful._

The angel politely removed his hat, then decided it would be the ideal place for some bread crumbs to appear in. He began to scoop small handfuls of the stuff from inside the hat, throwing them to the smug-looking swans and ducks.

“Look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?” _Straight down to business, then._ What was it this time – Armageddon? Surely that wouldn’t be happening any time soon – they’d have a couple of extra millennia at least. She’d make it a nice 4004 years either side of 0, probably.

“We have a lot in common, you and me.”

_Oh, that’s dangerous ground._ Aziraphale’s defence mechanism kicked in – they were in public, like in Wessex, like at the Globe. They shouldn’t be seen as being too close, even by humans.

“I don’t know. We may have both started off as angels, but _you_ are Fallen.”

“I didn’t really Fall, I just, you know... sauntered vaguely downwards.”

Aziraphale didn’t have much time to ponder the meaning of _that_ particular turn of phrase, before Crowley suddenly focused again. “I need a favour.”

“We already have the Agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other’s way, lend a hand when needed.”

“This is something else. For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

Oh, Aziraphale really didn’t want to be having such a serious conversation right now. Perhaps he could steer them on towards lunch, perhaps they could do this later, after the social stuff for a change? It would make a nice change of pace.

“I like pears.”

“If it all goes _wrong_.” Crowley would clearly not be swayed from this line of thought. “I want insurance.”

Now the demon was making no sense at all. Aziraphale shook the last few breadcrumbs from his hat and put it back on again. _Look serious, feel serious._ That was the idea, anyway.

“What?” he asked.

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears. Well, not walls, trees have ears...”

He hadn’t looked at him yet, Aziraphale realised as he took the piece of paper from Crowley’s outstretched fingers. The angel had been glancing at his companion throughout the conversation, but not once yet had the demon looked away from the water straight in front of them. What did that mean?

He opened the piece of paper. Crowley was blathering on about ducks. He read the two simple words there. And something that felt very much like a solid chunk of ice suddenly found itself blocking most of the internal organs in Aziraphale’s corporation.

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

He turned and stared at Crowley for a second. He couldn’t possibly think... He couldn’t possibly be planning... _No._

Alarm bells were ringing loud and clear in Aziraphale’s head, and he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t blot them out. This wasn’t something he was prepared to face today. This wasn’t – this _couldn’t_ be real, this was...

_NO._

“Out of the question.”

Finally Crowley turned his head slightly towards him. “Why not?”

“It would destroy you! I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.” He pushed the paper back into the demon’s hand, refusing contact with even the idea of it. How could Crowley even _consider_...?

“That’s not what I want it for. Just insurance.”

_Insurance?_ Yes, that’s exactly what Aziraphale was worried about – that if it all goes wrong, he’s _insured_ against having to deal with the fallout, he’s _insured_ against living with Hell on his back, he’s _insured_ against whatever the forces of Below could throw at him because he’s already _gone_. Completely. Utterly. For good.

Crowley offered the paper back to him again, unfolded this time. The words stared at him, plain as day – rough and clear and underlined, horrifying in their simplicity, terrifying in the depth of what they suggested. _Death. Destruction. Separation. Obliteration. Aloneness. Loneliness._

Aziraphale turned to face him, searching for some kind of understanding there in his friend’s impassive face. How on Earth could he do that? How could he ask, how could he think Aziraphale would say yes? How could he not understand the depth of what he was requesting?

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley.” _Bring it back to business, back to the Arrangement, the Agreement, make it a normal conversation again. Heaven and Hell. Good and Evil. That’s safe, that makes sense. He’ll listen to that._

“Do you know what trouble I’d be in if...” Aziraphale glanced upwards, unable to help himself. Would he know if they were listening in? Would they strike him down, then and there, for even having this conversation? “... if they knew I’d been... fraternising?”

Crowley froze, stiller than before, and then slowly turned his head towards the angel, even as the latter carried on talking, trying to refuse in as emphatic terms as possible.

“_Fraternising?_”

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.” What else could it be? No matter what you called this – business, an Arrangement, even a friendship – at the end of the day they were on opposite sides. This was fraternising, plain and simple.

And yet he was right, too. That word didn’t feel right, it felt too... formal. Too much like opposing spies working together on a quick job to help both their governments. Not enough like a pair of glorified security guards bonding over drinks and meals and shared memories over the millennia. Too much like a daughter of a duke making friends with the kitchen boy. Not enough like moments together snatched across history, relaxing in the summer sun or huddling in a winter bunker while their shared target carried on with life outside. Too much like a betrayal. Not enough like a confession.

He sighed. That was beside the point anyway. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to fraternise with, _angel_.” _Why did that casual word sound so biting this time around?_

“Of course you do.” He turned away, fear turning to anger.

“I don’t need you.”

Aziraphale span back around. “Well, and the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”

He was still holding the piece of paper, those incriminating words. He threw them, furiously, at the water, and ignored the way they fell, softly, slowly, infuriatingly downwards, like a lost feather. He marched off out of the park, leaving the demon to sulk behind him.

_Obviously._ What kind of a fool was he?

Aziraphale stormed through London, past the palace and down a street and just onwards, always onwards, not looking or caring where he was going. There were a million thoughts running through his mind at a rate of knots, a hundred different scenarios that all ended with Crowley giving up and dousing himself in holy water, a helpless version of Aziraphale either watching or appearing afterwards to find the mess left behind.

_No, no, no, no, no._

A discarded top hat and cane. A slick puddle. An empty flat. An empty park bench. An empty bookshop. An empty London. An empty Earth.

_I can’t – no, no, I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t..._

His stomach was starting to hurt from all the coiled emotions being shoved in there, all the screaming thoughts boiling to the top that he was struggling to keep down.

A puddle. An empty sofa in a too-quiet shop. Water. Screams of pain and loss and heartbreak. Wet.

_I can’t lose you again._

Aziraphale didn’t realise he was crying until he somehow found himself back in Soho and caught his reflection in one of the windows of the bookshop.

He pushed his way inside and locked the door behind him, closing the blinds with a snap of his fingers before throwing himself onto the setee.

_No, no, no, no, no. I got you back last time. It wouldn’t happen again, not like this. Not with that. It’s too final, too permanent, too complete._

_How could you even ask? You don’t remember – you don’t know what it was like. I lost you, you were GONE... And now I’ve barely got you back, I’ve hardly even had a chance..._

_And you’re asking for this? Asking me? Asking for a way out with no turning back? A path I can’t follow? An end so complete and utter for you – a silence so cold and empty for me._

_NO. I can’t, I can’t do this. YOU can’t do this._

_I can’t lose you again._

** _The Somme, 1916_ **

Crowley still hadn’t surfaced. He hadn’t seen him in decades, now – over half a century, in fact, and that was the longest they’d gone without contact in quite some time.

He shouldn’t miss the demon. He _didn’t_, he told himself, over and over and over again. _I don’t miss him, he’s a demon. Why would I ever want to see him again?_ But it was a miserable attempt at convincing himself. It hardly even worked for a day, let alone a year. Let alone fifty.

And right now, he could do with the company. The moral support, the friendly face, the reminder that this was all temporary, that he’d survived worse than this and would again. But Crowley wasn’t there.

The Somme was Hell. Aziraphale had never been Downstairs before, but he was certain that either it felt very much like this, or else some sort of crack between planes had formed and this muddy stretch of France was actually part of Hell itself. No other explanation could possibly be true.

It had to end soon, he told himself. It would be over in the blink of an eye, to him, and soon he’d be drinking wine and eating crepes with a demon again, and France would hardly even remember this horrific scar on its landscape. Perhaps.

_Lord_, he missed Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 The clothes were a sticking point. Self-deception is difficult sometimes, especially when you’re knowingly walking into a country that will literally kill you for dressing Like That, and yet you want to look your best in case a charming demon happens to coincidentally walk past. But Aziraphale was accomplished at that sort of thinking. He just had _standards_. That was all. [return to text]
> 
> 12 Aziraphale had become quite adept at sarcasm over the past couple of centuries. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**  
The term ‘to take French leave’ means to leave without saying goodbye, or without asking permission. It was originally used to describe people leaving parties without first taking leave of the host, which was apparently a common thing in France at the time but considered rude in Britain. Other equivalents exist in various languages, all mocking another nationality – apparently in the US you might have heard it as ‘Irish goodbye’. (I don’t think I’ve ever heard any version of it, or at least never knew what it meant if I did – I found this while searching for European sayings I could use for the chapter title.) I’ve changed the timeline slightly with regards to etymology here – Byron uses it in English (perfectly fine, it came into existence in the mid-to-late 18th century and he’s currently in the early 19th) and compares it to the French equivalent (less accurate – that version only existed around the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, according to Wikipedia) and the Italian one (I didn’t look up a date for when this was first used, but I assume a little while after the French one came into being). Basically I wanted a little in-text explanation of the chapter’s title, and a link to France/the phrase in all sections of the chapter, if possible, so that’s why it’s there. See if you can figure out how I showed it in the other three...
> 
> Those who can read French may also have noticed my little headcanon regarding the fate of Jean-Claude the executioner in 1793. Aziraphale is not, in my view, as cold-hearted as this scene would seem to imply (neither is Crowley, for that matter) – in fact, due to a little angelic miracle, Jean-Claude experienced the other side of the guillotine equation and survived, which was a rather effective way of changing his mind on the whole capital punishment thing.


	7. The Sublime and the Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is also the title of [an article by Iris Murdoch in the Chicago Review](https://www.jstor.org/stable/25293537?seq=1/analyze#page_scan_tab_contents), which is where the following very apt quote comes from:
> 
> “Love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real. Love, and so art and morals, is the discovery of reality.”

** _London, 1941_ **

It happened again, so soon afterwards.

For a short while, Aziraphale thought they’d finally figured it out. They seemed happier, and more prosperous – at least in the places he was in. He watched places across Europe begin to rebuild. He went to America for a while and saw them smiling and celebrating and revelling in being alive. He settled down in his bookshop, satisfied that there would be a little reprieve from the Hell on Earth he had witnessed.

He even heard whisper that Crowley might be back again, and some small kindling of hope set alight in his chest, which he allowed to glimmer with the thought of perhaps again reconciling, talking, dining or drinking together, laughing in the back of his bookshop, just the two of them.

And then it happened again.

There was no end to the surprises the humans could come up with. Aziraphale would always be impressed with their ingenuity. Even if that feeling also came with horror and a creeping sense of dread. He hardly dared look across at the Continent again, and when he did, he was heartbroken. The things they could come up with. _Animals._[13]

This time, however, he decided to try to approach things differently. He couldn’t bear to be on the front lines again, to dig himself deep into the mud and know there was nothing even he, with miracles at his disposal and a devout willingness to help everyone get along, could do. No, this time he would stay home, and be clever about things. He could become a spy, perhaps.

Or maybe he should just stay out of things entirely, as Heaven had strongly implied he should last time. As they were even more strongly implying this time.

Still, he was trying to blend in, and he should help wherever he could, especially when asked directly – so he couldn’t possibly have said _no_ when a British agent, no less, approached and asked for his help.

He was excited to be useful, to be necessary, to be _important_. They formulated the plan. He gathered up the right books from his personal collection. The date was set, the location chosen.

The time arrived. The bombs began to fall.

He entered the church under the cover of a night blacker than had been seen in London for centuries, barring recent events. There were no cosily-lit windows here, no indication of happy families having tea or hunkering down to wait out the air raid. No – each darkened window was a signal of the community spirit filling these streets, each act of preservation for the benefit of the whole as much as the self, and Aziraphale could feel the energy of the low-level love flooding the streets as he stepped onto the consecrated ground.

The aisle was lined with candles. He paused at the back of the church to remove his hat, then walked between them, smiling softly, infinitely pleased at being able to finally act out this wonderful plan.

The Nazis at the other end of the room looked stern and impatient. One took out a pocket watch and squinted at it as he arrived before them.

“Mr Glozier. Mr Harmony.”

“Mr Fell. You are late.”

“But not to worry. You have the books for the Fuehrer?”

“Yes, I do.” Aziraphale presented them, allowing the Nazis to carefully check the titles and names were correct.

Agnes Nutter was missing, of course, but then even Aziraphale, with all his contacts over the years and the theoretically infinite amount of money at his disposal, had been unable to even get a whiff of it. If he ever got that book in his possession, he wasn’t sure he would have brought it to the Nazis, even knowing it would never make it back to Germany. It was just too precious for that.

He told them about the one prophecy he had found, though. That one was just far enough in the future that it wouldn’t matter too much even if it did make its way back to Hitler. “Do not buy Betamax.”

“Who is Peter Max?”

Aziraphale had to fight slightly to keep himself from reacting to that. _I said ‘buy’, and you assumed a person? Even accounting for mishearing..._ But he restrained himself, and instead answered, with all the drama he could manage: “I have _no idea_.”

They turned a gun on him, of course, but that was to be expected. He had been warned of that. In fact, it was near enough a signal for his side to put their plans into action. He watched it carefully, though, taking care to quietly jam the weapon, just in case.

“That’s not very sporting,” he said reprovingly.

“You do not appear worried, my friend,” said Glozier, confused.

Another gun cocked behind the angel, and he felt the righteous smile begin to grow on his face as the Nazis’ own expressions dropped into shock and fear.

“She, my double-dealing Nazi acquaintance,” – _got to correct that familiarity of ‘friend’_ – “is the reason why _none_ of those books are going back to Berlin, and why your nasty little spy ring will be spending the rest of the war behind bars.”

Oh, he was _enjoying_ this. It felt good to be making a difference again, a _real_ difference, and quite apart from his celestial duties, too. He introduced Captain Rose Montgomery to the others, revelling in the theatrics of it all.

Unfortunately, it appeared the operation hadn’t been set up in quite the way he’d thought.

“Allow me to introduce Fraulein Greta Kleinschmidt. She works with us.”

Aziraphale was genuinely shocked. He recoiled from the weapon now turned on him, turned to stare at the two men now quietly laughing at him, and rattled through the memories of his and Rose’s – no, _Greta’s_ – meetings. How had he not realised? How had he not seen this possibility coming? How had he been so _stupid_?

Oh, if he got discorporated over this, Gabriel was going to have a field day. He wasn’t disobeying orders, exactly, but he still wasn’t really supposed to be here. This activity hadn’t been signed off. What if they replaced him? Sent down some other angel in his place to be Heaven’s representative on Earth for the next however-many thousand years until the End Times? Who would they choose? It wouldn’t be an archangel, surely? Perhaps another Principality? Perhaps – oh no, _Lord_ no, not Sandalphon?

“You can’t kill me,” he pleaded weakly. “There’ll be paperwork!”

At that moment, the door to the church slammed. A dark figure began to make its way towards them, making a collection of strange noises, and not walking so much as – hopping? Skipping? Dancing?

As the figure moved up the aisle, the low lighting of the candles began to show his shape and then his face. Aziraphale sucked in a breath in recognition. Then his eyes widened further and he blinked again at the full realisation of what was happening.

“Sorry, consecrated ground. Oh! It’s like... being-at-the-beach-in-bare-feet!”

The strange cycle of emotions tripping over themselves in Aziraphale’s mind landed on ‘anger’ and he stepped forwards towards the demon inexplicably dancing around on consecrated ground in a church full of Nazis. “What are you doing here?”

“Stopping you getting into trouble!”

Aziraphale paused for an instant, then realised and rolled his eyes. _Demon._

“I should have known, of course. These people are working for you.”

“No!” Crowley sounded genuinely disgusted at the thought. “They’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London, blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn’t want to see _you_ embarrassed.”

A new wave of pain hit the demon and he turned in a tight circle, trying to keep his feet off the floor as much as possible while still standing up. Aziraphale had half a mind to just scoop him into his arms and have done with it.

It seemed they were still friends, though, at least. That was good.

“Mr Anthony J. Crowley. Your fame precedes you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened again. He turned to Crowley.

“Anthony?”

“You don’t like it?” There was a hint of too-casual there, as if the demon really cared what an angel thought of his made-up human name. As if, for some reason, Aziraphale’s opinion mattered.

“No, no, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.”

“The famous Mr Crowley,” Greta said, and Aziraphale was suddenly reminded of the exact predicament they were in. “That’s such a pity you must both die.”

But the angel wasn’t done yet. “What does the ‘J’ stand for?”

Crowley made his usual interesting collection of uncertain sounds before coming out with the fairly honest-sounding answer of “It’s just a ‘J’, really.”

“Look at that! A whole fontful of holy water. It doesn’t even have guards!”

And then the old argument was back again, and Aziraphale felt a punch to the gut, right where the old bruises were finally almost entirely faded.

The Nazis interrupted again before they could start bickering in earnest, though. “Kill them both.”

“In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land _right here_. If you all run away very, _very_ fast, you might not die.” Crowley was still dancing around the burning floor, and Aziraphale started to understand his plan.

“You won’t enjoy dying,” the demon continued. “Definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.”

The Nazis didn’t believe him, obviously. Greta was still pointing her weapon at the both of them. Aziraphale realised he hadn’t actually jammed _this_ gun, yet. He took the moment of distraction to do so, just in case. Though between them, the celestial influence should be enough to dissuade anyone firing their weapons _quite_ as trigger-happily as usual, and if Crowley’s plan worked that would be all it would take to save them from an impromptu discorporation.

“It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course...”

Aziraphale looked at him, not quite daring to offer an approving nod just yet. But there he was, offering a way out – a removal of some horrifically sinful humans, an escape route for Aziraphale, an olive branch, so to speak, for their relationship. _This is him apologising._

“You’re all wasting your valuable running-away time.” The Nazis still didn’t move. “And if, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.” Crowley enunciated the last three words overly-precisely, and Aziraphale understood.

_Ah, he can’t do both at once._ “A – a _real_ miracle?” he confirmed, nodding.

“Kill them, they are very irritating.”

Greta hesitated for an instant longer. And then Crowley pointed up.

The little group of them all turned their faces skywards as a strange whistling sound made its way down towards them, getting nearer and nearer and –

Aziraphale had just enough time to put his hat back on to protect his hair before the bomb hit and he had to focus his attention on getting Crowley and himself out of the wreckage without their corporations being harmed.

The church was different, afterwards. Well, of course it was – most of it wasn’t there. But after the heat of the explosion, the rush of cold, outside air tasted different than it had in the confines of the small church. There was a loss here, a little of the love of worship fallen with the walls, but also a rushing inwards of emotion, that communal love from the streets finally making its way inside, snaking through the rubble, filling up this newly empty space. There were dead bodies here, too, but only Nazis, and he’d been sure to hide them under falling masonry. It looked different physically, but it also _felt_ different to Aziraphale, and it was both loss and gain, both fear and hope, both holy and unholy, and he didn’t know quite how to feel about it.

The candles had gone, but still fire flickered behind him, and still moonlight fell on where the aisle had been.

And Crowley was there.

Crowley, who had come into a church – a real church, with consecrated ground and holy water so close by – just to save Aziraphale from a pesky discorporation, just to save him the embarrassment.

Aziraphale watched as the demon cleaned the ash off his sunglasses, his feet no longer dancing on what was, to him, red-hot ground. It wasn’t consecrated anymore – un-consecrated, or desecrated, he supposed, and that must be his reasoning to Hell. Trying to discorporate an angel, perhaps, but certainly trying to desecrate a church. Job well done, in their books. But Aziraphale knew why he was really there.

The angel took off his hat again, still watching Crowley closely.

“That was very kind of you.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, no real malice in the words. He put his sunglasses back on, and Aziraphale was sad to see those beautiful yellow eyes be hidden again.

“Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start.” He put a laugh into his voice, an attempt to cover the compliment with a joke they both knew was true. Crowley was smiling slightly, softly, and Aziraphale supposed that if one good thing had come out of this evening, at least they were friends again. Plus, he hadn’t had to give up his books to those –

“Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot _all_ the books! Oh, they’ll all be blown to –”

There was a grunt, and then Crowley was handing him a leather bag.

A leather bag of books.

Unscathed by the bomb.

_Safe._

“Little demonic miracle of my own.”

_Protected._

“Lift home?”

_Loved._

Aziraphale watched. Looked down, at the books. Looked back up. Stared.

Crowley. Crowley had saved them. The books. He’d thought ahead, he’d thought... He’d saved them. For him. For Aziraphale. _For me._

He stayed there a moment too long, in the wreckage of his Mother’s house, staring after the demon who had brought the walls tumbling down. He felt broken open, far too exposed, far too raw.

_So this... This means..._

His mind wouldn’t let him finish the thought. There were too many things swirling around within him at the moment, too many ideas and feelings and realisations going on at once. He felt electrified, short-circuited. He couldn’t formulate anything to _think_, let alone say. And so he just stared after Crowley, for a beat too many. Or several.

The demon paused by a car on the other side of the street, similarly unscathed by the recent bomb. He turned back to look at Aziraphale. The angel still hadn’t moved.

There was a hesitation, then. Crowley looked like he was going to come back towards him, or perhaps take the silence and stillness as a no, and drive away. The indecision resulted in a stalemate; instead, the demon turned to look at his car, wiping off imaginary bits of dust and ash, cleaning the immaculate bonnet, refusing to look back at Aziraphale.

_He's waiting for you, you idiot. Move._

It was the only logical thought that was able to pierce the fuzz of activity going on in his mind. He obeyed it, carefully beginning to pick his way through the mess of the destroyed temple around him.

Crowley was still waiting for him by the time he got to the road. He was rubbing ineffectually at a headlight, but the moment Aziraphale made to cross the street, he stood up and rushed to swing open the passenger-side door.

The angel paused a moment beside the car, looking up into the shining black circles that concealed Crowley’s gorgeous eyes. He wished he could see them now – perhaps then he’d see something there he recognised, perhaps then he’d understand what this... what all this meant. What it was. What he was thinking.

The demon nodded slightly, and Aziraphale realised he was staring without saying anything at all, and so he shook himself and looked away, and climbed into the offered seat of the car.

He hadn’t been in one of these before. It was narrow, the two leather seats at the front as close as those they’d inhabit at the opera, or the theatre, or perhaps a drunken night in the back of the bookshop.

Crowley carefully closed the door after him, and for a moment Aziraphale was sat alone in the car, enclosed in Crowley’s hidden, newly unveiled life. He had bought this car. It looked new, though it was clearly at least a decade or two old. He had cared for this car. He had a life in this world, in this horrifying age, one that he’d kept apart from Aziraphale. He hadn’t spoken to the angel in almost eighty years, and he’d clearly spent some of that time right here, in London. But he’d also walked into a church – a _church_, for Heaven’s sake – to save Aziraphale from a bunch of idiot Nazis. It was far too much to take in all at once.

The driver’s door opened and Crowley folded himself into the seat as if he belonged there – which, all things considered, he probably rather did.

“You alright there, angel?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, and then for the first time, the double meaning of that word really hit him. _Angel._ The humans used it to mean... to indicate...

He swallowed hard, and nodded instead. He looked down at the bag of books that was sitting, miraculously, in his lap. Then he looked straight ahead again, staring out at the dark streets of Blitzed London, not daring to turn his gaze to the demon beside him.

The car started, and they pulled away. Aziraphale hadn’t been in a moving vehicle like this before, one driven by motors and human engineering rather than a horse or boat or something closer to nature. His hands tightened on the handle of the book bag, but he needn’t have worried. Crowley was moving very carefully through the bombed-out streets, edging his way slowly around discarded rubble and turning corners with a delicacy Aziraphale wasn’t used to seeing in him.

All the same, the ride wasn’t long. They were soon back at the bookshop.

Crowley stopped the car and silenced the engine, then got out and raced around the back of the vehicle to get to the passenger door. He opened it, and after a second, Aziraphale stepped out.

He should have prepared for this. “Ah, um, well, thank you, Crowley. I, ah...” He didn’t know what to say. The demon was watching him, face impassive, and Aziraphale was struggling to meet that hidden gaze.

“Well, ah, thank you, anyway.” He clutched the leather bag a little tighter to him, and began to retreat towards the doorway of the bookshop. “Mind how you go. Goodnight!”

He didn’t know quite how he managed to get the door unlocked and opened – possibly via miracle – but the next thing he knew, he was inside. Alone.

The blackout blinds were already all down, preventing any light from inside escaping, but also covering any view of the outside world. Not that Aziraphale was looking. He leaned against the shut door of the shop, eyes shut against the blackness inside the room, listening.

After a minute, he heard the passenger door shut. Then, a moment later, the driver’s door opened, paused, and closed. It was another minute or two before the engine started, but then the car smoothly drove away, and Aziraphale was alone – truly, actually alone.

He opened his eyes.

The bookshop seemed cold and eerie like this. Devoid of light, it also felt empty of warmth and comfort. It felt oddly lonely. It felt incomplete.

Aziraphale shook himself to his senses, and snapped a light switch on. _There, much better._ He moved slowly towards the back room of the bookshop, wavering slightly between the shelves as he felt the heavy awareness of the books in his arms, knowing the exact places they should go. He couldn’t bear to put them away yet, though. Not yet.

He sank into the soft cushions of the sofa, on the side Crowley usually sat – or _sprawled_, really. Not that he’d been here in decades, but still. Aziraphale knew which side was his favourite. The leather bag sat softly on his knees, and the angel stared at it, thinking of all the possibilities it contained.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, the confusing rush of thoughts falling over themselves in his brain. It was hours, at least, but it could have been days. Time can rather slip through your fingers when you’re someone with an apparently infinite supply of it.

Eventually, he opened the bag and thoughtfully re-shelved the books. He went to the little kitchenette and made himself a mug of cocoa. He sat down again, in the chair at his desk, and watched as the steam rose off the liquid in the mug.

There were lots of things he had to sort out in his mind. Perhaps it would help if he were to write everything down? He reached for paper and an ink pen, and began to loosely scribble.

The first ten pages made little sense. The next five after that were slightly more coherent, but were soon covered in arrows and extra notes, and became illegible. But by the time he was several stacks of paper in, he’d managed to narrow it all down to several key thoughts.

_Crowley loves me._

_I am in love with Crowley._

_I can’t ever tell him._

The words looked back at him with a sort of terrifying simplicity.

There was more to it than that, of course. There were myriad reasons _why_ he couldn’t tell him – Heaven and Hell for one (or two), of course, but also the strange betrayal that would be when he himself knew more about Crowley and his past than the demon did. But the simple fact of the matter was that he couldn’t tell him. It was impossible.

He left that last page on his desk, and took the rest of the sheaf out into the dark night (which night? Surely not the same one – how long had it been?) to burn them, one by one. The ashes scattered on the chill breeze as the air raid sirens wailed overhead, the truth of Aziraphale’s love broken and lost to the Soho night.

Back inside, he stared at the last piece of paper, at its cruel, horrible truths.

_Crowley loves me._

_I am in love with Crowley._

_I can’t ever tell him._

Then he scrunched up the page and burned that one too.

_He can’t ever know._

So now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13 This far through time, there were too many things that reminded him of Crowley. Even his own thoughts could pull him back without so much as a warning. This time he was in Revolutionary France, and the word tasted of relief and friendship and crepes. He shook himself, and went and buried himself in a book, and willed the feeling of hopelessness to pass. [return to text]


	8. How Much the Heart Can Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from a Zelda Fitzgerald quote: “Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.”
> 
> I went through a bunch of ideas for the title of this chapter, including ‘You Touch My Heart’, ‘Hold My Heart’, ‘Please Don’t Break Me’ (all things I typed into Google and found as song lyrics), and ‘Every Time We Touch’ (yep, that song, a bit too cheesy...). Settled on this in the end, but yeah. All on a theme...
> 
> There’s quite a few extra notes at the end again, after the footnotes! Do read if you want some context on Shadwell, tartan, and a slight explanation as to why this is all happening...

** _London, 1946_ **

It was a few years later when it first happened.

The war had ended, thank God, although the effects of the Blitz and the continuation of rationing was still having its impact on London. The streets were being cleaned up, housing was being rebuilt, children were being located across the country in an attempt to bring them all home. The whole country (if not the world, or at very least the continent) was filled with the odd mix of emotions that seemed to surface after every major conflict. Except this time, it was multiplied in intensity, filling the streets and clouding the faces of every human, and it made Aziraphale wonder how long it would be before things got back to normal. Or if they ever would.

‘Normal’ was a relative term. Nothing was ever truly ‘normal’, Aziraphale knew that. You couldn’t live through six thousand years of ever-changing social and cultural norms and think ‘normal’ was a thing that actually existed. And yet the angel found himself hoping that certain things would at least find themselves leaning in the direction of ‘previously established comfort zones’. Certain things pertaining in particular to a certain demon.

Although ‘normal’ might not exist, the pair of them had begun to settle back into familiar ways. The gulf of several decades apart was paling in the face of the grand swathe of time they’d known each other for, and so it was that only five years after Crowley had burnt his feet on the floor of a church, Aziraphale was inviting him back to the bookshop again.

“Wine?”

“Love some.”

And so it was that, over eighty years since the last time they’d done it, an angel and a demon got drunk together in the back of a Soho bookshop, and reminisced.

A couple of delicious bottles of red into the evening, and they were talking about Renaissance artists.

“He gave me a sketch of it, you know. Well, I say _gave_ – I bought it off him. He wanted twenty florins for it! I gave him fifteen. Was worth way more than that. Most demonic thing I did all week –”

That was when it happened.

It was something so simple, so innocent. Crowley had asked for the wine, and Aziraphale had reached over to pass him the bottle. And the demon had put out a hand to take it, but instead of touching only cool glass, his fingers had found purchase on Aziraphale’s own.

Such a simple gesture.

The contact sent something like electricity through the angel’s body, and he gasped at the shock of it. There was a memory, and the force of the sudden remembrance sent him flying backwards, hard into his chair, and hard into the past – five years ago, to a church reduced to rubble, to fingers pulling away from under his own on the handle of a leather bag that may as well have contained a still-beating heart.

Aziraphale had released the wine bottle and pulled back, his other hand grasping tight at the arm of his chair, his feet pushing his spine hard into the back of the chair. His pulse raced, and he stayed there, frozen for a moment.

“You ok, angel?”

The voice sounded genuinely concerned, but Aziraphale couldn’t look at him yet. He stared at his hand, feeling like he’d just touched fire, and yet without a scratch on it. It was fine. Nothing had actually happened. And yet –

“Aziraphale?”

“Ah, yes, I’m, ah, perfectly alright.” He finally glanced up into the demon’s worried eyes and smiled weakly. “Sorry. Just a little electric shock, you know.”

“Right,” Crowley said slowly, drawing out the vowel. He didn’t believe him, but what else could he say?

Aziraphale tried to recover himself, taking a sip from his newly-refilled glass. Crowley watched him closely, then filled his own.

“So where is it now?” Aziraphale asked, pretending nothing had happened. “The sketch.”

“Oh, I’ve still got it,” Crowley said, falling back into his performative casualness. Aziraphale had known him long enough to see straight through that now, but he didn’t comment on it. “It’s stored away in a box at the moment. ’M thinking of getting a flat at some point. Maybe I’ll put it up then.”

They made their way through a few more bottles, sliding back into easy conversation. Aziraphale spent most of the time trying not to think about the smell of cool air after an explosion, the feel of soft fire across his skin, but all that did, as the wine began to seep into his brain, was make him think of other, equally dangerous things.

“Do you miss it?”

The question cut through whatever conversation they’d been having until that moment, and Crowley looked over at him, bright yellow eyes suspicious.

“Miss what?”

Aziraphale gestured loosely upwards, not quite daring to follow the sightline of his own fingers. His gaze flicked to the demon, then away again in the face of that gorgeous, fierce stare.

There was a pause. Crowley leaned backwards, lounging like a serpent in his preferred corner of the sofa, but keeping his eyes steadily on Aziraphale’s face.

“Do _you_?”

It wasn’t the kind of answer the angel was expecting, and certainly wasn’t one that made sense to his alcohol-addled brain. He attempted to answer the question anyway.

“Well, you know, I still go up there fairly regularly, my dear. What is there to miss?”

There was a small twist of lips that briefly split into a snake-like grin before vanishing again. “Yeah, that’s it. What is there to miss?”

Aziraphale grunted in agreement. Then realised the implications of Crowley’s reframing, and protested.

“I’m joking, angel, don’t worry. It’s not like I’m going to rat you out to Gabriel or anything, is it?”

“I should hope not.”

Aziraphale reached for the wine bottle on the table and poured himself another glass. They’d made it through almost the entire last case of this one, which was a shame, because it was rather good. It never tasted the same once it had been miracled back in the bottle for sobriety’s sake, so they wouldn’t get to drink it again. It was, like all the best creations of humanity, fleeting.

He’d almost forgotten he’d even asked the question when Crowley spoke again.

“I don’t know.” His voice was soft and quiet, his eyes unfocused as he stared in the direction of a nearby shelf, memories filtering unseen through his vision. “I don’t think I remember enough of it to miss it.”

It was too soon, not long enough after the church for him to handle this. It would be too painful.  And yet the angel never did have a good grasp on denying himself things.[14] So he asked anyway.

“What do you remember?”

_Do you remember me?_

Crowley let out a breath, long and slow, like he was emptying his lungs of the present to dive deeper into the past.

“Nothing... concrete. I remember the brightness, the happiness. It was always beautiful, but I couldn’t tell you how. It never felt cold, I know that, but it wasn’t hot, either. Just... comfortable.”

_Bright. Comfortable. Safe. Happy._

They’d had this conversation before, more than once, in different ways. Aziraphale knew what came next. There was one thing more that Crowley remembered, a small echo that what remained of his angelic self still retained – something terribly painful.

He asked anyway.

“What else?”

The demon nodded, eyes crinkling slightly at the familiar question. “Love,” he said gently, reverently. “A deep, wonderful feeling of being loved.”

Aziraphale wanted to scream, as he always did – at himself, at Crowley, at God Herself for letting this happen – but he held it in, pushed it away. He looked down at his wine glass, contemplated downing the whole lot. “Her love,” he said, almost sadly.

_Hers. Not mine._

“Maybe...” the demon said. A slight frown had crinkled his forehead. “But...”

The angel’s head jerked upwards at the hesitation. “But?” he breathed.

“I... Yeah, maybe. I mean, it was certainly intense. Unconditional. But... I don’t know, it felt more... real? Present?” The demon shook his head. “Did... She didn’t ever appear _in person_, as it were, did She?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, She spoke to us. Fairly regularly in the early days, if I recall correctly.”

“No, but did She ever _appear_. Like, in a physical form.” Crowley had now come out of his fog of memory and was looking straight at Aziraphale again. The intensity of the gaze felt strange and new – not that he hadn’t faced it before, but the sunglasses weren’t often discarded. He hadn’t properly seen this demon’s eyes in well over eighty years.

“No,” Aziraphale said quietly.

_Please. Please tell me. Please let this be what I think it could be. Please._

_Please remember me._

“It felt... close. More like another person, maybe, like...”

_Like a wing overhead, protecting you from falling blossom? Like a hand pulling leaves from your hair? Like an arm around your shoulders, just because we could? Like..._

“I dunno,” Crowley said, suddenly springing up and moving away. “It’s all... foggy. I’m probably just misremembering.”

Aziraphale let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He watched as Crowley stalked off through the shelves of the bookshop, moving aimlessly as he often did when he was uncomfortable. The angel focused for a moment on slowing his corporation’s heartbeat down to a sensible rhythm, then chugged the remainder of his wine, picked up the bottle, and headed over towards Crowley.

He found the demon staring unseeing at the spine of an early Shakespeare folio.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to push, I just... I shouldn’t have asked.”

Crowley turned to stare at him for a second, then shook his head and waved a casual hand. “No, no, angel, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing, I don’t mind. I just... wish I knew exactly what happened, you know? Wish they’d give ’em back.”

Aziraphale nodded and refilled the glass he’d brought with him, before offering the rest of the bottle to Crowley. The demon smiled, and reached for it.

“Thanks, angel,” he said, as his fingertips lightly grazed Aziraphale’s hand on the wine bottle.

A bolt of energy rippled up the angel’s skin and shot down his spine, making him shiver as the demon took a swig straight from the bottle. This time Aziraphale was able to bite back the gasp, but he quickly retreated from the proximity of the shelves to the more open space of the main bookshop floor.

Crowley didn’t notice his reaction this time, which was good. He probably shouldn’t... no, he _definitely_ shouldn’t know that Aziraphale was now hyper-aware of whenever they touched. That would be weird, wouldn’t it?

It wasn’t like they had never touched before – they had shaken hands, touched arms and shoulders, even passed bottles back and forth just like this. And yet somehow it was different now. Somehow some books in a bag and some words on a page had changed things.

_I can’t ever tell him._

That was the first time.

[ ** _Edinburgh, 1949_ ** ](https://vintagenewsdaily.com/26-rare-color-photos-that-capture-street-scenes-of-edinburgh-in-1949/)

Hardly three years later, it happened again.

Just a gentle touch, nothing remarkable. A human barrelling towards them, unseeing. A hand on the shoulder, a slight pressure, just enough to scoot Aziraphale sideways and out of harm’s way. And yet it was enough to send the angel mentally reeling, the lingering feel of Crowley’s hand on his arm burning like gentle hellfire.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t touched before. That sort of nudge was normal, otherwise the demon wouldn’t have done it. They did occasionally touch hands or arms or shoulders – taps hello, or to draw attention to something, or in surprise, even. Aziraphale himself had even initiated such contact – a hand on Crowley’s arm during a particularly affecting scene in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, a casual shoulder bump to accentuate a joke he’d made, an elbow in the side and then pointing with the same hand  (because his other hand and his mouth were occupied by a rather delicious slice of cake) at an especially entertaining piece at an art gallery.[15]

But somehow, now it was different. Now there was that awareness of contact that there hadn’t been before. All the casualness had gone out of it.

Aziraphale was aware of every tiny pressure in every casual physical interaction they had. And it was all initiated by Crowley, because for some reason Aziraphale was now also hyper-aware of his own impulse to touch. Every time he moved to do so, he noticed, and he paused. Either he continued to do so, and so now the touch was deliberate and filled with an added, invisible layer of meaning, or he refrained, which was equally non-casual.

It was incredibly frustrating.

How had he let himself get like this? It was like being tangled up in knots on the inside – second-guessing and questioning his every move, wondering about motivations and thought processes whatever Crowley did, and all the time those three little horrific sentences circling in his mind.

_Crowley loves me. I am in love with Crowley. I can’t ever tell him._

They had continued to wander through Holyrood Park, Crowley chattering along about... well, whatever it was he was talking about. Aziraphale wasn’t sure, because he’d stopped listening the moment Crowley’s hand had pressed into his shoulder.

“Are you ok, angel?”

_Oh dear. He’s noticed._

“Yes, perfectly. Quite alright.” Aziraphale semi-consciously reached up and straightened his bow tie. “I’m very sorry my dear, my mind wandered there for a moment. What were you saying?”

“I was just making suggestions of where we could get lunch.”

The demon’s eyebrows were raised slightly above his sunglasses, an expression of surprise and concern. He didn’t push, though. He knew by now that if Aziraphale had something to say, he would get to it in his own time. And on this occasion, what he wanted to say would likely be a very long time coming indeed. No use waiting for it now. Not that Crowley knew that.

“Ah, well. Err, there was that lovely little café that we passed on the way here?”

“Which one?” Crowley said, smirking. “You pointed out about five on the same street.”

“Um, the second one,” Aziraphale chose at random. “You remember? It looked so _inviting_...”

“Of course, angel.”

They’d somehow walked to the edge of the park without the angel noticing. He had no idea which café he’d just suggested, so he made a little show of gesturing forwards. “Lead the way, my dear.”

Crowley gave a quick nod and obliged, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. He was watching Aziraphale from behind his glasses, the angel could tell. He was still worried about him.

_Act normal. Talk business. That’ll calm him down._

“So, ah, heard anything from your people recently?”

A frown passed over what was visible of Crowley’s face for a second before he shrugged and look forwards again. “Not really. Only for little things like this. They’re pretty much letting me get on with it, as per. You?”

“Oh, well, I haven’t had a visit from Upstairs for a little while now. Just the instructions. I’m probably due a visit to Head Office soon, but I haven’t heard anything yet. Just... things ticking over. They’re rather – as you say – letting me get on with it.”

Crowley nodded again, and they continued in silence for a little way longer. Then: “Here, is this the one you meant?”

“Ah –” Aziraphale glanced quickly at the tea shop Crowley had paused beside. He recognised it from earlier, but as he wasn’t sure which café he’d inadvertently indicated, he had no idea whether it was the right one or not. _Best just play along._ “Oh, yes, I do believe it was. Wasn’t quite where I thought – _thank_ you, Crowley.”

The demon pursed his lips in what Aziraphale recognised as the equivalent of when a human smiled in response to a compliment, only Crowley outwardly disliked compliments and sentiments of thanks, so he did that instead.

“After you, my dear.”

The two of them went inside, and took a little table in the window to people-watch as they ate. And Aziraphale tried not to think too hard about how far away his knees were from Crowley’s under the table, and was careful to avoid touching fingers as they swapped plates, and monitored where the demon’s hands were when they were on the table, just in case he accidentally placed his own there too.

Gosh, this was exhausting.

** _Brighton, 1954_ **

It seemed that 1941 had been rather an anomaly in Crowley’s driving.

“Will you _slow down_!”

“What? I’m not hitting anyone.”

“No, but – Oh _Lord_ – I’m serious, Crowley, you _can’t_ be going this fast on roads like this! On any roads! It’s just not safe!”

“Oh, it’s perfectly _safe_, angel. _I’m_ driving.”

“Watch out!”

The Bentley swerved around yet another oncoming vehicle, through a gap in the traffic it shouldn’t have been able to squeeze into, causing a large amount of honking from the surrounding humans.

“You’re going to get us discorporated! And I am _not_ explaining _this_ on the paperwork!”

Crowley suddenly screeched to a halt into a perfectly Bentley-sized space beside the pavement, somehow sliding the car sideways into the gap without so much as nudging the cars either side.

“See?” he said triumphantly. “Safe and sound.”

Aziraphale harrumphed and made a show of patting down his coat and smoothing out the wrinkles, straightening his bow tie and tapping his legs as if to make sure they were still there.

Crowley didn’t stay to watch the show. He launched himself out of the car and round to the passenger side, ready to open the door for Aziraphale as soon as he was ready. The angel couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Well, how kind,” he teased as he stood from the car.

Crowley scowled in fake anger. “I’m not _kind_, angel. I’m sarcastically making a point.”

“Oh? And what point would that be?”

By this time they had walked into the restaurant Crowley had parked directly outside of, and the demon paused to request a table for two.

“That I can be _safe_ and _considerate_ if I want to be. But I _choose_ not to. It’s more demonic.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, stifling a smile. “Is that so?”

The waiter led the pair of them to a table at the back. Crowley still wasn’t finished.

“See, if I do things like _this_...” He pulled out a chair at the table and gestured for Aziraphale to sit. The angel obliged, trying not to laugh at Crowley’s performative gentlemanliness. “And then I buy you dinner, and then I suggest something _tempting_ to you, you’re more likely to accept, you see?”

“If I were a human, perhaps. But I see through your schemes, you fiend.”

That soft smile of his flashed briefly across Crowley’s lips. “Of course, angel.”

“So you’re bad at driving because to do otherwise wouldn’t be demonic enough? And when you do things that might be seen as good, they’re only when you have an ulterior motive?”

“I am _excellent_ at driving, angel. I just don’t always follow all of the humans’ silly rules.”

“I rather think that’s the definition of bad driving, my dear.”

Crowley ignored that. “But yeah, the rest of what you said. Good for bad purposes. And all that.”

“Hmm...”

Aziraphale was remembering something quite the opposite. A journey from Runnymede, some several centuries ago. _Good deeds done simply for the pleasure of doing them, nothing more._ He smiled quietly to himself.

“What?”

The angel looked up to find Crowley watching him through his dark glasses.

“Oh, nothing. I was just...” He scrambled for something to say. “I suppose... I mean, that’s how you could explain away the, ah, _Arrangement_, I suppose.” He thought rapidly, and quickly clarified. “Doing good deeds to get me on side. Tempting an angel... into sin, I suppose. A demon doing good deeds for bad purposes.”

Crowley looked impassive for a moment, then his face jumped alive, and he lent forwards onto the table. “_Exactly_,” he said, laying a hand down in emphasis. “And you could say the opposite. That any small bad deeds you did were for an ultimately good purpose – tricking a demon into goodness. They could hardly complain at that!”

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening anymore. He’d frozen in place, smile fixed on his face. Because the hand Crowley had put down wasn’t just on the table. It was perfectly covering his own.

Time seemed to slow. He couldn’t pull his hand away – that would make it too obvious that the contact _meant_ something where it hadn’t before – but he couldn’t very well leave it there, either. The warmth from Crowley’s hand felt both soothing and inflaming, and for a moment he had the strongest, most ill-advised urge to simply turn his hand over and hold on.

“Angel?” All the laughter had gone from Crowley’s voice, and he seemed suddenly worried. “I didn’t –”

The demon raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, and Aziraphale surreptitiously slid his now uncovered hand off the table and on to his knees. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m... I’m sssorry if you don’t see it like that. If you don’t want to...”

Everything in Aziraphale’s mind was focused on what had just happened to his hand. But some part of him was aware that he’d inadvertently upset Crowley. That part of him clawed its way to the front and found some vaguely sensical words to say.

“No... No, it’s fine.” He had fixed his gaze in the centre of the table, refusing to look up at the demon. “I just... hadn’t thought about it in that way before.”

Under the table, he cradled the hand on fire with the other, the touch of Crowley’s skin on his own still feeling as real as if the contact was unbroken.

“Sorry, uh...” Crowley made a series of strangled noises, apparently scrambling for something to say. “Uh, we should order. What do you fancy, angel? Anything you like, my treat.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly and reached for the menu with the hand that wasn’t currently metaphorically on fire in his lap. His eyes skimmed the words, not really reading.

_Why are you being like this? Why can’t you focus? Why can’t you just act like everything’s ok?_

After several minutes, his eyes managed to pause on the words long enough to take them in, and he laboriously chose meals for the two of them.

Crowley behaved like a gentleman for the rest of the meal, deferring to Aziraphale for wine choice and dessert selection, remaining as polite and restrained as possible, even sitting slightly straighter compared to his usual serpentine slouch. Aziraphale gradually came back to himself, trying to forget his extreme reaction to the contact, trying to pretend everything was alright, everything was normal.

But it wasn’t. And apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

As Aziraphale finished the last of the desserts, Crowley mumbled some excuse about sorting out his hair, and made his way to the bathroom. The waiter, a fairly tall man with an impressive moustache, came over with the bill.

“So,” he said in a low voice, so only Aziraphale could hear. “Are you two together?”

The question made Aziraphale start. It wasn’t the first time humans had made assumptions about him and Crowley, of course. They had lived on a planet with multiple, ever-changing norms for several millennia, and not always presented as two men for that time, so naturally people drew their own conclusions. Crowley usually shrugged it off, and Aziraphale usually distanced himself from all association completely. But this was a restaurant, where they’d just spent the past couple of hours dining together, Crowley clearly acting the gentleman, and Aziraphale clearly reacting to his touch. Any human paying attention, who knew what to look for, would see the obvious straight away.

It was also the first time the question had come up since... since the church.

He didn’t quite know what to say, and fumbled for a second. “I, ah...”

“Don’t worry,” the waiter said quickly, still low and discreet. He glanced subtly around the quiet restaurant. “You’re safe here. I won’t tell anyone. I just thought you should know... You aren’t alone around here.”

Aziraphale suddenly realised the risk the man was taking. Asking a stranger, in broad daylight, about something that was against the law. He smiled up at him, trying to put some genuine feeling into his weak grin.

“Thank you,” the angel said, and as the waiter nodded and left the table, Aziraphale put a gentle blessing on him.

Crowley came back a minute later, producing some money for the bill, plus a generous tip. Then he led the way from the restaurant, holding the door open for Aziraphale on the way out. The angel paused to say goodbye and thank the waiter again, and then let Crowley again open the Bentley door for him and gently shut him inside.

The demon was still a terrifying, reckless driver. But he got out and raced round to open Aziraphale’s car door again at the other end. It was almost like being driven by a demonic chauffeur.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he felt about attentive, courteous Crowley. Not that he wasn’t always attentive, wasn’t usually polite and accommodating towards the angel. But it felt different now, somehow, and he was certain it wasn’t just his own change in feelings. Something had happened between them. Aziraphale just wasn’t sure what.

[ ** _Caernarfon, 1962_ ** ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/63164772@N05/11930352676/in/photostream/)

The main square was busy, cars and buses and coach-loads of English tourists milling around. Technically, Aziraphale supposed, he and Crowley could be counted among that number, although they weren’t actually English. They were certainly tourists, though – Aziraphale hadn’t lived here for any prolonged amount of time for centuries, at least, and he wasn’t sure Crowley had ever lived in Wales at all.

They spent the morning walking up to the castle and looking around it, chatting about the days when it was active.

“Did you ever get to see the original castle? Edward rebuilt it entirely...”

“They garrisoned it in the Civil War, didn’t they? Seems weird to think of it like that now...”

“Ooh, do you remember the Glyndŵr Rising?”

Once they’d exhausted their memories of the place, they walked down to the waterfront and wondered aloud what would come next for the humans.

“I mean, in the short term, surely they’ll do the Prince of Wales thing here again, right?”

“Perhaps. They’ve only done it once. They might pick another castle. There’s quite a few to choose from.”

“How long’s it been, anyway? A decade? When are they going to do it?”

“When he’s old enough to appreciate it, I believe. He’s held the title for, what, four years already? So it probably won’t be too much longer. He’s already a teenager. They’ll want him to do a speech in Welsh.”

“Huh. Fair enough.”

Naturally, talk shifted to lunch. Crowley grinned at Aziraphale’s less-than-casual request for food, and gave a dramatic flourish of a gesture. “Oh, but of course, angel. Right this way!”

They ate in a little restaurant away from the main tourist areas – or, at least, the restaurant was quiet as though there were few tourists around, but that may have been Crowley’s doing.

Lunch was wonderful. Aziraphale laughed at Crowley’s horrible butchering of the description of Welsh cakes, and Crowley laughed at Aziraphale’s prim recital of what they actually were. Crowley lounged and Aziraphale ate. Both of them smiled and talked and caught each other’s eyes over the table, and it was just all so _lovely_. Aziraphale felt buoyed up by it all by the time they left the restaurant again.

They decided to go for a wander next, just pass the time until evening when they each had their respective jobs to do. They strolled through the streets together, and some of the pavements were quite narrow, which was why Crowley was walking quite so _close_ to Aziraphale as they chatted together. The angel had to fight himself occasionally not to either lean into it or take a sudden, noticeable step away. It made it all very difficult to focus on the conversation at times.

And then, as Aziraphale was attempting to explain the adequate consistency of the typical Sunday lunch gravy, a group of humans came towards them on the same slim stretch of pavement. And the angel became suddenly aware of Crowley’s hand on the small of his back, softly manoeuvring him out the way of the oncoming crowd.

All thoughts of gravy immediately left Aziraphale's mind. Everything was now focused on the gentle pressure at his back, on Crowley’s proximity, on the ridiculous _publicness_ of all this. He was touching him! In broad daylight! While they were there for jobs – Heaven and Hell knew they were there! They could appear any minute!

And yet Aziraphale didn’t want to move, didn’t want this tiny, innocent piece of contact to stop. It was so familiar, so casually intimate, so far beyond spending time together in restaurants or theatres of the back room of an old bookshop. There was something so _comfortable_ about it, something that made him want to lean back against Crowley’s arm, or sideways into his chest, or even stop him entirely in the middle of the street and –

_And what?_ There was no sensible, logical end to that sentence.

The humans passed, and Crowley’s hand moved away – perhaps a beat later than it could have done, perhaps a beat too soon for Aziraphale’s liking.

“But is that true for all gravy?”

“Wh-what?”

Crowley looked at him with eyebrows raised above his sunglasses. “I mean, you’ve told me the exact perfect consistency for a Sunday roast. What about if you had it with something else? Like, I dunno, pie?”

“Pie?” said Aziraphale indignantly. “Well, that’s a completely different _matter_ –”

And for a while, everything was back to normal again.

But then when Crowley had gone out to stir up some Welsh pride in a few of the local pubs, Aziraphale went up to his hotel room and sat there for a while, breathing heavily, thinking. There was too much, too much. Too many thoughts running through his head, and somehow it was like 1941 all over again, but this time the conclusions were already there, rocketing through his mind along with everything else.

_Crowley loves me. I am in love with Crowley. I can’t ever tell him._

The problem was that they couldn’t be doing this. The problem was Heaven and Hell, was being hereditary enemies, was pretending they didn’t even know each other, was pretending that they didn’t hang out every so often – more and more regularly every decade – sharing jobs and going for lunch and getting drunk in the back of the bookshop.

_Crowley loves me. I am in love with Crowley. I can’t ever tell him._

The problem was that Aziraphale very much wanted this to continue. He wanted Crowley to be able to touch him as casually as he had, and more – he wanted Crowley to do such forbidden things as take Aziraphale’s hand in a restaurant and not let go. Aziraphale wanted to be able to do such things _himself_ – he wanted to take Crowley’s hand in the park, walk with him like that, and not care what anyone else thought.

_Crowley loves me. I am in love with Crowley. I can’t ever tell him._

The problem was that Aziraphale knew the truth, knew far more than Crowley did, and it was killing him. The problem was that it had been too long now, and how could he ever tell him anything about Before? Crowley would hate him for knowing, would hate him for never telling, would hate him for telling, would hate him whatever happened. It was just a matter of time now.

_Crowley loves me. I am in love with Crowley. I can’t ever tell him._

He couldn’t keep living like this. He had to talk to him.

How, though, was a whole other problem.

** _London, 1967_ **

The thing about London is that it’s huge. Several million people going about their business in a relatively compact area – anything and everything could be going on at once in that city, and very often did.

The thing about Soho is that it’s small. Particularly when you’re an angel with human contacts letting you know whenever anything out of the ordinary is happening. It’s very hard to get away with something secret in a place like that.

The thing was, though, that Crowley was barely even keeping it quiet. This was nothing like his usual smooth discreetness – the call for human assistance had been sent around a large number of people, and the word ‘church’ had been in there from the get-go. Not to mention that he was doing it in _Soho_ of all places. It was almost like he was broadcasting his plan so that one person in particular would pick up on it. Which, of course, Aziraphale did.

He didn’t cry, this time. He refused to let himself think about all the fears that had risen up when he’d first been presented with those two horrifying words on a piece of paper in St James’ Park. He refused to let himself be overwhelmed by all the emotions that had hit him when he’d realised he might lose Crowley for good, again. He refused to even think about those three phrases that had been near-constantly circling his head for the past two and a half decades.

He just looked at the simple facts of the situation. And made a decision.

The flask itself was easy to obtain. A quick miracle would have sufficed, but Aziraphale preferred things made by hand, and anyway, this was important. It should be done right. It was easy, nevertheless – humans could make almost anything they put their minds to these days, and he’d had a couple of thermos flasks made with his own tartan on it a few years back. It didn’t take much rummaging at the back of the bookshop to find the spare.

The water, too, was easy. So easy humans could do it, had been for years. But this had to be done right, so Aziraphale wanted to do it himself. And therein lay the issue.

Holy water is, technically speaking, easy to make. Emotionally, however, when your best friend is a demon who would quite literally be made to cease to exist in the most painful way upon touching any amount of the resulting substance and you are literally planning on handing this over to him at the next available opportunity – well, that makes it a great deal more difficult.

He managed it, though. A whole flask of the stuff, blessed by the hand of an angel, then carefully shut tight and wiped as clean and dry as possible by that very same angel, just to make sure.

Thermos flasks have two parts to them to open before you get to the stuff inside. The first is the actual watertight one, the screw-in cap that hold the liquid at bay. But then there’s also the lid, shaped like and designed for use as a cup, which fits over the top of the cap, leaving a very small extra space inside. Aziraphale considered this space for a long while.

The problem was, it was exactly the sort of space one could use to by folding up a piece of paper and fitting it snugly inside. And that was an opportunity Aziraphale didn’t want to waste.

What to say, though? What words could he possibly cram into a tiny piece of paper that would work well enough to dissuade Crowley from using the water on himself, if he ever decided on that course of action?

It should be something short, he decided. A few words, a sentence or two at most. So he fetched a paper and pen and wrote a ten-page essay on the merits of staying alive, even when it looked like there was little reason to.

When he was finished, he took a deep breath and started again. This time, two pages of notes – ideas in bullet-points of what he could say, of what should be written there to stop Crowley from doing the worst thing he ever could.

Then again, just one page. Each time he began writing, Aziraphale was narrowing down his ideas, words, sentiments, trying to find the best way to encapsulate his feelings into just a couple of lines that would prevent a future version of Crowley from ending his existence. Besides admitting to himself the truth of what had happened in the church, or trying to cope with the realisation of what Crowley wanted from him that day at the park, it was the hardest thing he had ever done.

Eventually, he had it. He wrote the words neatly on a carefully-cut scrap of paper, folded it to the perfect size, then fitted it into the lid and clipped it onto the flask. There. Done.

That was all he could do, really. A little note, a last-ditch effort.

Aziraphale knew when the planning meeting would be, so he stopped by afterwards, walking through the Soho night with the flask cradled gingerly in his arms. He watched from the side of the road as Crowley finished his conversation, then miracled himself into his seat in the Bentley as Crowley got in. There was no resistance from the car – it was used to him being here, after all.

The demon’s thoughtful expression changed in an instant as he turned and realised he was no longer alone.

“What are you doing here?”

The tone wasn’t exactly friendly, but given the circumstances Aziraphale wasn’t surprised. “I needed a word with you.”

“What?”

_Take a breath. Remain calm. He needs to know you’re serious about this. He needs to know you care._

“I work in Soho, I hear things.” Aziraphale paused for an instant, waiting to be told he was wrong, waiting to be told it didn’t matter, he’d changed his mind, he wasn’t serious. Crowley was silent.

“I hear that you’re setting up a...” Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes for a second, then looked away. “Caper. To rob a church.”

Crowley pressed his lips into a thin line and turned to stare forwards out of the windshield.

He was losing him already. A slight colouring of emotion entered the angel’s voice.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous. Holy water won’t just kill your body, it will destroy you completely.”

“You told me what you think, a hundred and five years ago,” the demon said flatly.

“And I haven’t changed my mind. But I can’t have you risking your life. Not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley didn’t respond. So Aziraphale reached down into the footwell and retrieved the flask from where it was safely nestled.

“So...” he raised it up, gently, carefully, like he was holding a live bomb. “You can call off the robbery.”

Crowley looked for a moment at the flask, stunned into silence. Then he turned to look at Aziraphale, face somehow so full of emotion, even with those awful sunglasses covering his beautiful, expressive eyes.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

Crowley opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. He reached forward with soft fingers, careful and reverent. He too knew the explosive power this thing contained.

The demon touched the flask without so much as glancing off the angel’s own fingers, and he wasn’t sure whether he was relieved about that or not. Aziraphale let Crowley take it, let him hold it in his own hands, let him stare at it in shock and hear the gentle sloshing of the liquid inside.

“’S the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

And he couldn’t stop himself then, couldn’t prevent his eyes from flicking to and then holding on Crowley’s face, trying to memorise every line, every atom of the demon, in case this was the last time he ever saw him. In case he’d ever need to reconstruct him from the smallest particles upwards, as if he could ever hope to manage that. In case the bomb he’d just handed over went off tonight, and he needed to remember every detail he’d never get to witness again.

“After everything you said.”

Crowley looked back at him, but Aziraphale had already looked away, eyes falling now on his own tartan pattern that encircled the deadly substance. He nodded in answer. He couldn’t trust himself to say anything more.

“Should I say thank you?”

Now Aziraphale was the one staring straight ahead, unable to look at his companion. “Better not.”

“Well, can I... drop you anywhere?”

That was an olive branch, as much as anything. The fight was over now, the century-old conflict put to bed by Aziraphale finally agreeing. But no, he couldn’t take the offer. He couldn’t go anywhere with him now, or he wouldn’t be able to trust himself not to try and take the flask back.

There was a horrible image that Aziraphale’s limited, fear-focused imagination had crafted for him, and it was of himself snatching the holy water flask from Crowley, and it breaking, and the water flying everywhere, and –

No, he couldn’t go anywhere with him. Not tonight.

The angel looked sideways at the demon, regaining his composure. “No, thank you.”

Crowley made a strange sort of motion and his face dropped a little, the hint of a pout, perhaps... perhaps the hint of a fear that this was it. That their friendship was over, at least for now. Perhaps he thought that this was Aziraphale’s parting gift.

No, that wasn’t true. He couldn’t have him believe that. He had to know... He had to tell him...

_Crowley loves me. I am in love with Crowley. I can’t ever tell him._

Aziraphale couldn’t look at the demon. But he knew exactly what he must be thinking.

He remembered all those times, all the casual touches and Crowley running to open his door for him, all the laughter and the ease they felt together, all the memories and experiences they’d had. He remembered the church, twenty-six years ago. He remembered getting drunk in the bookshop together, and dining in Edinburgh and Brighton and Caernarfon, and the demon’s hands touching his fingers, his shoulder, his back. He remembered wanting to reach back across that chasm, to hold hands, to hold his body, to repeat the familiarity they’d had Before, in Heaven, when Crowley went by another name and neither of them knew what it meant to Fall, and neither of them knew what it meant to not be allowed this intimacy, this proximity, this love. Because that was what it was, and Aziraphale had known it for a while now. And Crowley knew it too.

Both of them knew, as well as each other, what this meant to them. And it couldn’t happen, it couldn’t ever happen, not in the way that they both wanted it to.

But they could still do some things.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could... I don’t know.” This was a plan, a timeline, a promise. _What do you want from this? How far are you prepared to go?_

“Go for a picnic,” he finished. “Dine at the Ritz.” He dared a look at Crowley then, and knew the demon had understood the words for what they were. Aziraphale couldn’t stand it.

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”

_No. Ask again and I’ll say yes, and I can’t. Please. You have to understand..._

The gifts, the thoughtfulness, the kindnesses. The gentle touches, the familiarity, the intimacy. Crowley loved him, and had loved him for years, decades, centuries, even. He had no idea how long for.

And Aziraphale loved him too, but it was still all so new, still so terrifying – because twenty-six years is _nothing_ when you’ve lived almost six thousand, because somehow falling in love again is harder the second time around when there are secrets to be kept hidden, because Heaven and Hell were _right there_ and could be so _angry_, and he didn’t want to think what would happen.

He couldn’t do this. He had to leave.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The sound of the car door shutting sounded like nails in a coffin, and Aziraphale crossed the road and hid himself around a corner as he watched Crowley stare down at the flask in his hands.

After a moment, the demon carefully strapped the container into the seat next to him – Aziraphale’s seat – and started the Bentley, and pulled away.

Aziraphale watched him go, feeling like his heart was being torn out of his chest to follow him.

He’d done it. He’d finally caved, finally had the strength, finally done what he could to avoid the worst happening, finally enabled the potential for it to happen. There was no weight that lifted off off his shoulders – if anything, the crushing feeling that began that day in the park suddenly weighed double now.

Aziraphale watched his best friend in all creation, the only being who truly understood him, the person that he _loved_, drive away with the one thing that could completely and utterly destroy him, gifted to him by the angel’s own hand.

He let himself cry, then. He went back to the bookshop, and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14 Things he wanted, that is. Unfortunately, he was rather good at denying himself things he needed. The truth, for one thing. An awareness that Heaven’s concept of ‘good’ didn’t quite align with his own. A knowledge that he had far more security and support in the single demon opposite him than in the entirety of Upstairs. [return to text]
> 
> 15 One major benefit of celestial presences going unnoticed by humans, Aziraphale had found, was the ability to take food into places where food wasn’t generally allowed. Of course, the usual concerns when humans do that – crumbs everywhere, the resulting pests, smudges and stickiness on glass and on floors, potential damage to important objects or equipment – were largely avoidable when you had miracles at your fingertips anyway, so the humans would never even notice. So as long as he cleaned up after himself – which, being a proudly well-presented angel (at least as far as human appearances were concerned), Aziraphale did anyway – he was able to get away with eating all kinds of delicacies in a variety of inappropriate places, much to Crowley’s amusement. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**
> 
> So for this chapter I’ve basically assumed that the two of them have started coming up with excuses to go places together to follow their instructions from their respective Head Offices, rather than just one going at any given time and doing both. They still do that, occasionally, but going on holiday together has kind of become a _thing_ that they’re very much not talking about but still doing...
> 
> I’ve seen a [great headcanon](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/189167825948) recently that Aziraphale had already employed Shadwell by the time 1967 happened, and that he was the one who made sure Shadwell was in on Crowley’s job rather than the original person. I’ve intentionally left it kind of vague here as to whether or not Aziraphale knows who it is that Crowley’s talking to, but honestly either he doesn’t recognise him at all or he sent him there specifically, because maybe it might have panned out a bit differently if Aziraphale recognised him but hadn’t sent him there himself.
> 
> Also [here](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/189057838653/a-discourse-on-tartan) is a great post about the importance of tartan for Aziraphale. I’ve been considering how to work this into my fic for a _long_ time now (since I realised Aziraphale had his own tartan, honestly probably before I even started writing fic for this fandom) – it’s such a key little detail for his character. I figured I may as well also link the post here since it summarises it all well.
> 
> Also, can you tell I did a disproportionate amount of research for this chapter? Don’t ask. I kept getting sucked down internet rabbit holes, which is why both Edinburgh and Caernarfon have links in their titles to photos. Enjoy!


	9. So Much to Lose, So Little Time

** _London, 2008_ **

Aziraphale loved sushi. He wasn’t so un-self-aware that he could call it a ‘rare treat’, but it was the kind of meal that felt special every time he ate it. He loved the flavours, the textures, the smells, the visual artistry within every morsel, the atmosphere of the restaurant, the friendliness of the chef and staff, the whole beautiful experience.

He thanked the chef and leaned down over his food, inhaling the scent of it with an Earthly kind of divine pleasure. _Perfect._ The only thing that could make it more perfect was if –

Aziraphale sensed a celestial appearance at his side, and it was as if Crowley had read his mind. The angel looked around at his friend, smile already spreading over his face – and then stopped. There was no friendly demon stood to his left, no flame-red hair and golden eyes to share this moment with. _Then what...?_

His eyes focused on the mirror beyond where he had expected Crowley to be, and he saw the truth in its reflection. Someone _had_ appeared. Just a different _kind_ of someone, and the wrong side, and now somehow this meal was going to be ruined, and _oh why does he always spring up on me like this?_

He turned towards the archangel, the shock still written across his face.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Gabriel! What an unexpected pleasure. It’s been...”

“Quite a while, yes.”

_Not long enough. Oh, no, don’t think things like that. That’s so rude. He’s an angel! An archangel! He’s not a bad person, he’s Good. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. Maybe I’ve been down here too long..._

“Why do you consume _that_? You’re an angel.”

Aziraphale looked down at his food again, and saw it in a different light. _Earthly indulgence. Unnecessary. Superfluous. Pointless. Dirty. Human._

“It’s sushi,” he said, as if that answered the question. _Well, it should. It’s sushi._ “It’s nice. You dip it in soy sauce.”

He looked at Gabriel’s unimpressed face, and settled into the explanation he’d understand instead. “It’s what humans do. And if I am going to be living here among them, well, keeping up appearances. Tea?”

“I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with... gross matter.”

_Ah, no. Of course you don’t. How silly of me._ “Obviously not.”

He tried to find some common ground. Small talk was not a big favourite of Aziraphale’s; he tended to avoid it in his bookshop, as it often seemed to lead customers to believe that they _should_ buy something, as if in thanks for the chatter. He much preferred long, involved, _interesting_ conversations about human cultures and the nature of the universe and how certain foods should be. None of which was the kind of thing he tended to get from the inhabitants of Heaven. So, small talk it was.

“Nice suit.”

“Yes! I like the clothes,” Gabriel said, unexpectedly enthusiastic for a second. “Pity they won’t be around much longer.”

_What?_ “They won’t?”

“We have reliable information... that _things_... are afoot.” Gabriel said it in such an intense, meaningful way, that Aziraphale’s thoughts leapt at once to the only thing it could possibly be.

“They are?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale’s mind was racing. _Already? But it’s only been... Well, I mean, there’s still so much for them to do! It can’t be ending already..._

Gabriel cut into his thoughts. “My informant suggests that the demon... Crowley? May be involved.”

_Oh. Well, yes, that makes sense. He is their representative on Earth. If the child is to be raised here, then... it makes sense. Oh, I wish he’d told me in advance. Why did Gabriel have to be the one to do it?_

“You need to keep him under observation,” Gabriel continued. “Without, of course, letting him know that’s what you’re doing.”

“I – I do know, yes,” Aziraphale said, uncomfortable with the implication of what the archangel might be getting at. “I’ve been on Earth doing this since the Beginning.”

“So has Crowley.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in acceptance of that fact. _Yes, yes he has._

“It’s a miracle he hasn’t spotted you yet.”

Now that _had_ to be on purpose, didn’t it? _Lord, they can’t know. No, they would have said something._ Aziraphale fought to keep his expression as blank and inoffensive as possible. _He is warning me, though. That if it ever did happen... I would be in trouble._

“Yes, I know,” Gabriel suddenly said, already laughing at his own joke. “Miracles are what we do.”

Aziraphale gave him a weak smile, and the archangel left, striding out of the restaurant and into the London air. The angel looked down unhappily at his sushi. _Well. Thank you for that, Gabriel._

He did eat the sushi, in the end. But it had lost a little of its magic, now that he knew there wouldn’t be much time left to enjoy... any of this.

He walked back through the throngs of Soho, thoughts whirling. By the time he got to the quiet, homely safety of the shop, he had decided to simply try to enjoy everything human to its maximum now, before it was gone for good. He flicked the record player on and began humming along to the melody, taking off and hanging up his coat with a flourish.

The phone started ringing. _Gosh, humans really do call at the most inappropriate times..._

He picked it up anyway. “I’m afraid we are quite definitely closed,” he said, in his calmest, go-away-iest of voices.

“Aziraphale, it’s me.”

He’d recognise that voice anywhere. _Crowley._

“We need to talk.”

“Yes. Yes, I rather think we do.” He paused for a second. “I assume this is about...”

“Armageddon. Yes.”

“Nine o’clock,” Aziraphale said quickly.

Crowley hung up.

_I’ll take that as a yes._

‘Talks’ of a business nature were almost always done in the same place – on a bench beside the water in St James’ Park. It was best done during sunlight hours, when people would be around and the two of them sat there wouldn’t look unusual or out of place. _Now_ was not the time, and so tomorrow morning it would have to be. Nine was probably the earliest it would be safe to do so without attracting attention. The bad news was that that meant he now had over ten hours to himself, alone in the bookshop, to mull over everything and get himself into a state.

_Come on, Aziraphale. Buck up._

If the countdown to Armageddon had started, that meant the Antichrist had been born, and was now alive and kicking somewhere on Earth. That meant they only had a matter of years left – until he was old enough to come into his power and obliterate everything.

Once that happened... well, then would be the war. The Second Celestial War. Only a matter of time, now.

Aziraphale didn’t often drink alone, but right now he decided he could do with one. He rummaged around in the back room of the shop and brought out a bottle of whiskey he’d picked up decades ago. _That’ll do nicely._

The record player continued to spill forth classical music as he settled himself in his usual chair and began to sip slowly at a glass of the amber liquid. _War..._

Looking at it from this angle – knowing it was in the future, seeing it with a painful inevitability – was a strange experience. That had never really happened before – not with the First War in Heaven, and not with any of the human conflicts since. There were _signs_, of course, in the days and weeks and months leading up to any declaration, but it was never _certain_, not until that first sword was drawn or bullet was fired. And yet here he was, looking forward at the certainty of death and endings and destruction. It was strange, yes. That was one word for it.

He finished the glass and filled another, and then found himself checking his pocket watch. _Still nine and a half hours left. Good Lord, this is going to be a long night._

He tried to avoid thinking about the war, but then that only gave two possibilities – what came before it, which he had already settled (keep on keeping on, do whatever Heaven asks, and in the meantime enjoy as much of human life as possible, eating and reading and occasionally going places and generally doing whatever things he’d miss when it was all over), and what came after, which was... uncertain, to say the least.

What would a world without everything look like? A scarred, barren planet, yes – or maybe just some hunks of rock floating in space, if it went that far – but what would reality be? Aziraphale would be sent back to _Heaven_, on a permanent basis, to do... well, whatever it was that angels would be doing up there.

What would there be left to do? If there were no humans to look after, to bless and nudge and keep watch over, what would angels even _do_? If there was no Hell to plot against, well... what would be the point of it all? What would the point of Heaven _be_?

The angel suddenly caught himself, realising what he was doing – thinking some very dangerous thoughts, asking some very dangerous questions – and sat up straight.

“That’s quite enough of that,” he said to the empty shop.

He put the half-drunk glass down on the table and stood, intending to wander the shelves and find something to read, something to take his mind off everything that was currently whirling around in it. Unfortunately he didn’t get there quick enough, and by the time he reached the first accumulation of books, he was only able to stare absently at each spine, distantly checking it for any signs of damage, as his thoughts danced around, intermingled with discomfort and fear.

_Crowley._ There was a problem he wasn’t wholly ready to look head-on yet. He’d be fighting on the opposite side of the war, attempting to undermine everything Aziraphale and his colleagues did, attempting to win and failing miserably. That was quite one thing, but afterwards was another matter.

In the settling ash of war, when humanity had ceased to exist and Hell had been torn to shreds, justice would reign. Heaven was goodness, and goodness was kindness and mercy, and even if almost everything he’d loved about the last six thousand years was gone, everything would be okay. Because at least he’d still have Crowley.

That was the thing that kept him going, really. The belief that he refused to leave behind, the one bit of faith he really had. _If I believe in one thing, I believe in him._ Crowley was a good person – Aziraphale knew that, he’d _seen_ it. After Runnymede, during the plagues, in the fires, in the aftermath of the floods. All across human history, Aziraphale had seen moments – casual niceties, friendly smiles, helping hands, determined eyes, angry snarls – and he knew the truth. And after the War, the rest of Heaven would know it too. Justice would be restored, and Crowley would be recognised as having done his best in extreme circumstances, and he’d be allowed to come back to Heaven. Mercy, redemption, forgiveness. That was what a Heavenly triumph meant. And it would be wonderful.

The possibilities following that were varied. Would Crowley be made an angel again, or was Falling irreversible, a mark of the past that would never be changed? Not that it would matter either way – personally Aziraphale thought the black wings rather suited Crowley, not to mention all the other little demonic details that made him _him_ – and besides, once all was forgiven for those few demons that acted in accordance with Heaven despite being denizens of Hell,[16] well, appearances wouldn’t be important anymore, would they? Justice meant no unfair judgement. People would let them both exist as they pleased.

Would Crowley be given his memories back? That was another possibility of the time After that concerned Aziraphale. Would they offer them to him? Would he get the choice of whether to take them? Would he want them? What if he didn’t? What if he did, and then didn’t like what he saw? What if he resented Aziraphale for not saying anything, for never _saying_ –

But it would all work out in the end, wouldn’t it? After all, it was Heaven.

And, to a certain extent, it would have to. There would be nowhere else to go. Heaven would be everything there was – no Hell to hide in, no middle-ground Earth to retreat to, not even any of Crowley’s beloved stars left to run off to. _Oh, there’s so much we’re going to lose in all of this, even when we win. It’s a shame it has to happen like this._

About then was when the record player ran out of music to play, and Aziraphale was brought out of his reverie to find himself peering down at a first edition of _Paradise Lost_.

_Well, that’s hardly appropriate. Paradise Found, more like. That’s what it’ll be like. Oh, if only the humans could see it. Think of everything they’d write._

He decided to make himself a mug of cocoa, and put away the rest of the whiskey for another time. He did so, and then he chose one of his favourite Wildes, and whiled away the rest of the night reading, as he so often did.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Aziraphale was ambling down the path in St James’ Park, up from the vague direction of Trafalgar Square and Downing Street, towards Buckingham Palace. He spotted Crowley sauntering towards him from the other direction, and made a beeline for the conveniently empty bench that sat between them both.

He settled himself on the far end of it, and then Crowley passed him and just so happened to choose the same bench to sit at the other end of, and then they could talk there, with the plausible deniability of not having realised who the other was. Well, that was the general idea, anyway.

It didn’t take long to cover everything. Aziraphale did feel slightly bad for assuming that Crowley must have known beforehand and had actively chosen not to give him the heads up, but since he had never made that sentiment known to Crowley, he didn’t apologise for it. He did feel bad, though. But not bad enough not to double-check Crowley was right.

“You’re _sure_ it was the Antichrist?”

“I should know, I delivered the baby.” There was a pause. “Well, not _delivered_ delivered, you know... handed it over.”

There it was, the break in business.

This always happened, subconsciously or not. There was a moment in all of their talks at St James’ Park and the occasional other rendezvous points, where one or other of them, usually Crowley, would break the barrier. It was only a little thing – a turn of phrase, a movement of the head – but then suddenly they would be talking like old friends again, not business acquaintances, and they’d stop staring straight ahead and hiding that they were even speaking in favour of looking at one another and talking animatedly. It was the moment their cover dropped, their plausible deniability was dissolved, and it happened every time. Yet Aziraphale didn’t mind it – if Heaven and Hell hadn’t noticed them both sat on a bench together in broad daylight by that point in the conversation, they probably weren’t going to for the rest of it, so it was probably safe to drop the act.

Not that any of that was particularly a conscious, thought-out belief. It was just the way things tended to happen, and Aziraphale didn’t question it.

“We will win, of course.”

The demon looked up at him, a soft smile spreading across his face that Aziraphale would be tempted to call ‘fond’ if he wanted to annoy Crowley. “You really believe that?”

“Obviously! Heaven will, finally, triumph over Hell.” He smiled and leaned slightly nearer to Crowley. “It’s all going to be rather lovely.”

“Out of interest, how many first-class composers do your lot have in Heaven? Because Mozart’s one of ours.” _Oh, here we go. The old game._ “Beethoven. Schubert. Uh, all of the Bachs.”

“They have already written their music,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“And you’ll never hear it again.”

The angel stopped. _Hmm? What was that?_

“No more Albert Hall,” Crowley continued. “No more Glyndebourne. Just... _celestial harmonies_.” He was teasing now, that mockingly angelic tone, but it was a fair point.

“Well...” Aziraphale began.

“And that’s just the start of what you’ll lose if you win,” Crowley cut back in.

_Yes, I know. What do you think I was doing last night? I know exactly what’ll be gone. Everything._

The demon carried on regardless, and Aziraphale sat there, taking it. “No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No gravlax in dill sauce. No _more_...” he paused for emphasis, leaning forwards towards the angel. “Old bookshops.”

Crowley got up and began to walk back the way he’d come. Aziraphale frowned and watched him go for a moment. _Well yes, I know that. But..._

He’d thought about it in abstract terms, of course. _We’re losing everything, so of course it includes that._ But he’d rather assumed... well, there would be books in Heaven, wouldn’t there? Wouldn’t there?

He’d been so caught up in thinking about what would happen to Crowley after the War, and then in reading and forgetting about it all for a while, that he hadn’t stopped to think that the bookshop itself would have to come down, too. All the things in it, he would be enjoying for the last time, but... somehow he’d been thinking about it as if the whole thing would be locked away and left there, out of sight and unreachable. He hadn’t considered watching it cease to exist in real time. And, more to the point, never being able to recreate something similar Upstairs.

After a few seconds, he got up too and followed the demon through and out of the park. _I know what you’re heading towards here. Don’t ask it of me, please._

“We’ve only got eleven years, and then it’s all over,” Crowley was saying, as they climbed the steps towards the Bentley. “We have to work together.”

He sighed. “No.”

“It’s the end of the world we’re talking about, not some little temptation I’ve asked you to cover for me while you’re up in Edinburgh for the festival. You can’t say no.”

“No!” Aziraphale said again, a little more urgently and indignantly.

“We can do something! I have an idea.”

“No! I am _not interested_.”

Crowley stopped then, and looked at him, mouth open a little in surprise. Aziraphale refused to look him in the eye, just in case. _Stop trying to tempt me. I’m not going to do it. You can’t make me go against Heaven, not even for this._ He turned to walk off, his back to Crowley.

“Well, let’s have lunch, hmm?”

_Oh, you sly fiend._

He turned to look at the demon, already knowing he was a lost cause.

“I still owe you one from...”

“Paris. 1793.” He’d offered to pay but for some reason Aziraphale had instead, and so Crowley had promised to pay him back sometime. It had all been rather... sweet, really. And an excuse to see one another again. And then they’d got caught up in each paying their own way or swapping favours and matching up all the time, and it was always still sitting there, that one unpaid favour, that one tiny promise that they’d do this again sometime. The fact that Crowley was willing to give it up now showed how seriously he was taking this, Aziraphale supposed. But there was also the chance that he’d ‘forget’ to pay again, or the angel himself would get there first, and then it could still be there, in the background, a promise of another meal together, one day. After all, they still had eleven years left.

“Yes! The Reign of Terror.” They both moved towards his car, now, entirely ignoring the traffic warden that had apparently made the rather ambitious move of clamping the Bentley, and was now issuing it a ticket on his little electronic machine. “Was that one of ours or one of yours?”

Aziraphale paused at the door. “Can’t recall.” That wasn’t _important_, not really. But other things were. “We had crepes!” he said brightly.

There was a spark in the traffic warden’s hands, and a click as the clamp simply fell apart, and then the Bentley sped away through the streets of London.

They went to the Ritz, of course. Aziraphale had promised it once, in a car in Soho. It had felt like a long time before he was ready to go through with it, before he felt comfortable enough to take that step. But then, once he had, it was all too easy to fall into habit. By this time, Aziraphale had lost count of the number of times they’d been there together. Not that it was a regular thing, no – it was still only occasional, a rare treat for the senses. But it wasn’t terrifyingly impossible anymore.

The meal was delicious, as always, and Crowley quite happily sat there watching Aziraphale as he took his time over his food – starter, main, and dessert. The talked about whatever – casual things, human things, nothing of business or theology at all. The Antichrist and Armageddon never once crossed either of their lips.

That didn’t mean they weren’t both thinking about it, though. _Ah, that was delightful. Only eleven years left to eat things like that again._ It was the most obnoxious of elephants in the room, making itself known through everything from the music playing to the chatter around them both and from the most exquisite flavours to the simplest of napkins.

_Everything_ reminded him of the thing he was trying not to think of. It was like... trying not to think of a pink rhinoceros when someone has just said ‘pink rhinoceros’. Once it’s out there, it’s all you can think about. And when something is all you can think about, you see hints of it everywhere. So everything reminded him of the pink rhinoceros. Or, rather, everything reminded him of Armageddon. Armageddon was very much like a pink rhinoceros.

Which was why when Crowley mentioned alcohol, Aziraphale suspected very strongly where it would lead.

Of course, he still went along with it. Why wouldn’t he? He _enjoyed_ long, drunken philosophical debates with his best friend. No matter that the theology being debated was suddenly very real and current and threatening. If anything, that simply made for a more stimulating conversation.

Sometime several hours later, Crowley was threatening him with an eternity of watching _The Sound of Music_. And there was something about a bird in there somewhere, too. Probably a duck. Crowley liked ducks.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he found himself saying – dangerous thing in itself, that – “but I told you, I-I can’t diso... not do what I’m told. ’M ’n angel! I... Oh, God, I – I can’t cope with this while I’m drunk. I’m going to sober up.”

“Yeah, me too.”

It never got nicer, that sensation. It was the bad taste in your mouth it left afterwards, that was the main thing, although the actual act of the alcohol leaving the celestial blood stream was a little uncomfortable in itself, too. It was far better than a hangover, though. Aziraphale had made that mistake a couple of times over the centuries, and was relatively determined not to do it ever again.

A shiver went down his spine as clarity came back to him, and Aziraphale ran the conversation through his mind again, trying to uncover the thread of it from his recently-no-longer alcohol-drenched brain. He suddenly realised what he’d just said, and tried to subtly backtrack. “Even if I _wanted_ to help, I couldn’t. I can’t interfere with the Divine Plan.”

He couldn’t help himself glancing upward as he said it, but right now Heaven wasn’t actually at the forefront of his mind: Crowley was. Crowley, Earth, the bookshop, and nights like these. _He’s saying he has a plan. We could save this, all of this, together. It doesn’t actually have to end._

Hope is a powerful thing. It can help you to survive almost anything. If you aren’t careful, it can also lead you to your own destruction. _I thought the War was inevitable this time last night. Anything can change in a day. You never know. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Armageddon doesn’t have to happen at all._ It was the kind of thinking that had the potential to get you discorporated running unnecessary risks, or obliterated entirely if you really weren’t careful. _How much are you willing to risk for this planet and its inhabitants? How far are you willing to go?_

“Well, what about diabolical plans? You can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of the Divine Plan too.”

Even now Aziraphale was sober, Crowley was starting to make a lot of sense. That was dangerous, that was. A demon tempting an angel. And yet...

“I mean,” Crowley continued. “you’re supposed to thwart the wiles of the Evil One at every turn, aren’t you?”

_A _lot_ of sense._ “Well...”

“See a wile, ya thwart, am I right?”

“I... Broadly,” he admitted. “Actually I encourage humans to do the actual –”

But Crowley was on a roll, now. He knew he was onto the right track. “The Antichrist has been born,” he said, fixing Aziraphale with that intense yellow stare. “But it’s the upbringing that’s important, the influences. The _evil_ influences, that’s all going to be me.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly. “It’d be too bad if someone made sure that I failed.”

They looked at each other for a moment, yellow on blue, and then Aziraphale thought about it, _really_ thought about it. And it was the damnedest thing – that... might actually work.

“If you put it that way... Heaven couldn’t actually object if I was _thwarting_ you.”

“No. Be a real feather in your wing.”

He stared at the demon across from him for a little longer. _You can make this work. Think about it. You’d get to keep this, all of this. There wouldn’t have to be a war._

_It’s at least worth a try, right? Is there any real reason not to?_

He looked a moment longer, just while he could. Then he leant forwards and reached out a hand.

Crowley’s met his, and this wasn’t like anything that had happened in the middle of the last century. This was deliberate, and business-like, and serious. There was still a thrill there, though, something that made his corporation’s unnecessary, pointless heart skip a beat.

The demon leaned back again, a smile on his lips. “We’d be godfathers, sort of. Overseeing his upbringing.” His long, elegant fingers danced through the air as he said it, and Aziraphale could picture it now. Eleven years, following the child together. Keeping him balanced, keeping him safe. Together. They’d see each other every day.

“We do it right, he won’t be evil,” Crowley said. “Or good. He’ll just... be normal.”

Aziraphale felt a grin spread across his face – whether from excitement or relief, he wasn’t sure. “It might work. Godfathers. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it,” he said, with a devilish wink.

The angel’s face dropped. “That’s not funny, Crowley.”

“Yeah, it is. A bit.”

Aziraphale harrumphed primly, and reached for his wine glass again. “Well, anyway. To godfathers.”

“To godfathers,” Crowley said immediately, summoning his glass and toasting. “To the Antichrist, to thwarting demonic wiles, and to saving humanity and the Earth.”

The angel smiled again, small and soft, and drank to the toast. Crowley mirrored him.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, putting his glass down. “Now that’s decided... How exactly are we going to go about it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16 Some small part of Aziraphale thought that Crowley couldn’t be the only one. After all, Aziraphale certainly couldn’t be the only angel who cared about the humans and their lives and creations, so it stood to reason that if there were people like him Upstairs, there could be people like Crowley Downstairs. Perhaps a lowly demon sitting through endless paperwork, remembering what it was to sing in Heaven’s choirs and repenting every day, wishing they could go back. Perhaps one who had been stationed to guard the souls, and took no pleasure in the thought of torture or pain, and chose instead to abstain, regardless of the teasing or even anger that might come about from their colleagues. Perhaps one who had only Fallen, like Crowley, for something minor, and had decided to work for good in little ways – misplacing paperwork, or not pointing out mistakes, or intentionally putting in those mistakes themself – things that would add up over time to something positive and Good. It was entirely possible. After all, he’d only personally met or heard about a handful of demons, and they weren’t exactly representative of the general population Downstairs.
> 
> In short, Aziraphale did have an optimistic outlook sometimes. [return to text]


	10. It’s the End of the World (And I Feel Fine)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title this time is based on an REM song: [It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)](https://genius.com/Rem-its-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it-and-i-feel-fine-lyrics). The song is basically a stream-of-consciousness about how everything’s awful and ending and scary but also, weirdly, we’ll get through it. It was released in 1987, two years before the Berlin Wall came down and three before Good Omens was published.
> 
> I kind of had that song echoing in my head while trying to think of a title for this chapter, so I went with it. But I could also hear Aziraphale saying “it’s all going to be _fine_” in my head, and I wanted to use that instead – until I finally placed the quote, and realised it was at the Flood, and what he was actually saying was “**they’re** all going to be _fine_”. So you get REM instead. Go listen to the song, it’s a bit of fun.
> 
> Okay, notes about the chapter itself...
> 
> Children are difficult to write for sometimes. There’s a _lot_ of dialogue in this chapter, just to warn you. (Warlock needed to be taught what a metaphor was. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea.)
> 
> Also it’s just a very, _very_ long chapter overall. It’s divided into six sections, so feel free to treat each of those as a chapter and read it in stages (otherwise it’s somewhere in the region of 10k words...). I mean, sorry not sorry. But I thought you ought to know...

_**London, 2015** (Four Years Before the End of the World)_

“You have seven hellhounds under your command. You use your unholy powers to multiply their numbers by ten. How many hellhounds do you now command?”

“Uhh... Seven times ten? So... Seventy?”

“Yes, my little Lord of Darkness, that’s right!” Crowley’s voice was curled up into Nanny Ashtoreth’s Scottish accent, but that couldn’t hide the simple fondness that bled through. She was sat at the table in the garden of the American ambassador’s official London residence, making the most of the warm afternoon as she guided Warlock through his lessons.

She gave him another Hell-themed word question, then another.

“Is it... Forty-two?”

“That’s it, my little Destroyer of Kings!”

Aziraphale – or rather, Brother Francis – was watching the pair of them as he pretended to prune a nearby bush. He’d actually just miracled it into the right shape twenty minutes ago, and was now simply snipping at the occasional leaf and using the opportunity to watch the two dark beings he loved most in creation.

It had never been his intention to love Warlock. This was just an assignment, after all – a matter of business, plus the boy was the Antichrist, no two ways about it, so he really shouldn’t get too close – but nothing was ever as simple as that. Warlock was still a child, still roughly human for the time being, and still utterly adorable. And so it had happened, quite by accident, and now there was no stopping it.[17]

“Right, my darling, I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t you play in the garden for a little while with Brother Francis? I’ll go and find out when tea’s going to be ready.”

_She knows I was watching._

_Oh, well. It doesn’t matter really, it’s only fair. I _am_ meant to be keeping an eye on him too. And now she’s shepherding him over to me to balance it all out while she’s out of the way._

The little boy – almost seven now, _they grow so fast_ – barrelled across the grass towards Aziraphale.

“Hi Brother Francis!”

“Well, hello, young Warlock!” Aziraphale smiled down at the boy with as much happiness and love as he could muster, which honestly didn’t take much effort at all. He made a show of realising what he was holding as the child came running up for a hug. “Oh, careful! Watch out for my secateurs!”[18]

“Sorry, Brother Francis,” Warlock said, skidding to a stop just in time.[19]

“Not to worry at all, young master.” He put down the secateurs and held his now safely-empty arms out for a hug. The boy ran to him without hesitation, and that... sometimes that was hard to cope with. Because Aziraphale knew what the child had the potential to become.

“Right then,” the gardener said, once Warlock had let him go. “Here’s a good little gardening lesson for the day. Sharp things are very, very dangerous. They can be very useful, like these are...” He picked up and held out the clippers to Warlock, who took them with wonder in his eyes. “But they should be looked after very carefully and only used when entirely necessary. You could hurt someone with something like this, and even if it’s an accident, it’s never okay to hurt anyone. Do you understand?”

“Nanny says that one day I will be faced with an army of enemies, and that I can stab and hurt and maim them as I please.”

_Seriously, Crowley, perhaps you should tone it down a little?_

He improvised a gruff, gardener-ly laugh, and gently took the tool back. “Ah, well, that’s what’s called a metaphor. Do you know what a metaphor is, young Warlock?”

The boy shook his head, wide eyes staring up at him.

“A metaphor is a way of saying that one thing is another thing to make an interesting comparison, even though we don’t mean it really _is_ that other thing.” He reached down and plucked a single blade from the lawn. “So if I say this here grass is an emerald, what do you think I mean?”

Warlock shifted his feet. “I dunno.”

“Well, what do you know about emeralds?”

“They’re like diamonds, but they’re green.”

“Exactly! So, what do you think I’m saying about this grass, if I say it’s an emerald?”

“You’re saying that... it’s green?”

“Perfectly right, young master! And Nanny is doing something similar when she talks about hurting your enemies. She doesn’t mean you should _really actually_ stab them, because that wouldn’t be right, even if they were mean to you. What she _means_ is that you should help them understand that you are hurting, through your words. That might hurt them, to know that they’ve hurt you, but they need to understand it so it doesn’t happen again.”

Warlock nodded slowly, then tilted his head to one side. “But what if they’ve done something _really_ bad? Or they don’t feel sorry?”

Aziraphale winced. _Why do these conversations always have to be so difficult?_ “Well then, if they _really_ deserve it, they can be punished. But that’s for really, really serious things, and you wouldn’t do the punishment yourself. You tell an adult you trust, or the police, and you let them sort it out for you. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah. And then do the police stab them?”

“No, no, my dear. Not even the police stab anyone. Or... well, they shouldn’t, anyway. Because two wrongs do not make a right, young master, and that’s one of the most important lessons you can learn. Just because someone did something bad, doesn’t mean you should do the same or worse back at them to teach them a lesson. ‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.’ Do you know what that means?”

“Uhh... if you stab someone’s eyes out, they can’t see?”

“Yes, my dear, exactly that. And if one person stabs someone’s eye out, and then they do it back, and then they do it back again, it just keeps going until there’s no eyes left, and that’s not fair to anyone.”

Warlock giggled. “Okay, Brother Francis.”

“Right then. Do you want to help me tidy these leaves up, and then we can play a game?”

There were very few branches and leaves to tidy up from the miracled-neat bush, so the job was done in no time, and Aziraphale even let Warlock _very carefully_ put the secateurs away in his tartan gardening kit. Then the little boy ran off and retrieved a black-and-red football from the other side of the garden and kicked it to him.

Aziraphale wasn’t much one for physical exercise, and neither was Brother Francis – that was an important part of his character, he had assured a softly-smiling Crowley – but he could also never deny Warlock anything. So he dutifully stood on the lawn, moving the minimum he could around the garden whilst still kicking the football back and forth with the young Antichrist.

It was almost fun. Simple, with no real skill or expectations necessary. And Warlock seemed to enjoy it inordinately.

“He shoots, he scores!” crowed the boy as he booted the ball over Aziraphale’s head and stuck it firmly in the bush Brother Francis had just been trimming. Rather miraculously, it only stayed there long enough to prove how high Warlock had managed to kick it, and then it gently dropped down from the branches and was ready to be played with again.

“What a save!” Warlock shouted as he artlessly blocked one of Aziraphale’s firmer kicks.

“And he absolutely annihilates the opposition with that footwork!” he yelled as he dribbled the ball slowly past Aziraphale and then kicked it into the bush again.

The twang of an American accent to those words was almost jarring, and the angel couldn’t help smiling at it a little. Thaddeus would have preferred the child to play _American_ football, but of course ‘soccer’ was his favourite.

“Goal!”

“Amazing pass!”

“The crowd goes wild!”

“Warlock is our King!”

It seemed like a long while later, and yet also no time at all, when Nanny’s voice called out across the garden. “Dinner’s ready, my darling!”

Aziraphale looked up, red-faced from finally attempting to properly tackle Warlock for the ball, and saw her lounging at the table she and Warlock had been doing maths at earlier. By her casual lean – far more prim and proper than Crowley’s usual sprawl, but still more relaxed than a momentary perch – he could tell she’d been watching them for a while. If his cheeks hadn’t already rivalled a tomato for colour, he would have blushed at that.

“Coming, Nanny! I just need to score the winning hat-trick first!”

“Of course, my little Prince of this World! Come inside when you’re ready.” She stood, brushed down her neat black pencil skirt, and headed inside. Aziraphale watched her go, and therefore missed any slim chance to save against Warlock’s next ‘goal’.

The boy ‘scored’ two more, and then another three just because he wanted to, and then finally Aziraphale decided it was probably time to go in. Warlock kicked the ball back towards its usual resting place, and then the pair of them walked to the house together.

“Brother Francis?” Warlock asked as they got to the door.

“Yes, young master?”

“That ‘meta-four’ thing you were saying about earlier?”

“Yes?”

“Is that what Nanny means when she calls you ‘angel’?”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. _When had...?_

But of course, it must have happened at some point – more than once, probably, within Warlock’s earshot. It was such a casual familiarity that he didn’t always notice it, and had forgotten what it might sound like to any humans who overheard.

He barely managed to stutter out a response. “In what way, my dear?”

“Well... like how angels are meant to be good and pure and wonderful – even though most of the time they’re not, and there are some really nasty ones out there – but they’re meant to be kind and helpful and friendly. She’s not saying you’re _actually_ an angel, she’d just saying she thinks you’re nice and stuff. That she likes you.”

“Ah...” Aziraphale swallowed and cleared his throat. “Um, well, yes, young master, you’re quite right. That’s exactly what a metaphor is.”

The little face lit up. “Awesome!”

Then he ran in through the open doorway and disappeared towards the dining room, where Crowley was waiting for him, leaving Aziraphale stood in the garden, thinking about a demon and trying very hard not to question everything all over again.

_**London, May 2019** (Three Months Before the End of the World)_

Warlock was sat curled up in the shade of the big apple tree at the bottom of the garden, his cheeks flushed. He was pretending very hard that he hadn’t been crying.

Brother Francis was meant to be weeding a bed of forget-me-nots, but had given that up a while ago to simply watch the boy and check he was okay.

He was decidedly not okay.

“But _why_?” he had cried earlier, tears streaming down his cheeks as his mother stood firm in front of him, arms folded.

“Because you’re going to go to a proper school next term, a boarding school, so you don’t need her to tutor you anymore. Besides, you’re ten now, you’re far too old for a nanny.”

“But I don’t _want_ to go to boarding school,” he’d shouted, the heartbroken anger of it squeezing something in Aziraphale’s chest. “I _want_ my Nanny!”

Crowley had left without saying goodbye for precisely this reason. Apparently it was something about teaching him to live in rage, but Aziraphale strongly suspected it was because the demon knew she’d crumble in the face of Warlock’s pleading.

But she had made Aziraphale promise to stay on for an extra week. Just to make sure Warlock was going to be alright.

The angel sighed, and stood up from the flowerbed. He brushed the worst of the mud off, careful not to use a miracle this close to the Antichrist in the final months before he came into his power, and walked slowly over to the boy.

“How are you doing there, master Warlock?”

“Fine.” He didn’t look up, one arm wrapped tightly around his knees, the other hand twisting in the grass at the base of the tree and pulling it up in clumps.

There was a pause as Aziraphale tried to figure out what to say. He decided the truth, or as close as he could get to it, was the most sensible option.

He moved to the tree and settled himself against it, around the trunk a little from Warlock so as not to crowd him. Then he spoke softly, quietly, in as reassuring a tone as he could.

“She does love you, you know.”

A grunt was the only reply.

“She wanted to stay for longer, but you have to grow up sometime. That’s just the way it is. I’m... I’m sorry that sometimes that hurts. But it’s the way it has to be.”

“But _why_?” came a small voice, and Aziraphale felt Brother Francis’ face crumple at the vulnerability of the sound.

He sighed, and steeled himself. _Party line._ “Because all humans have to grow up. That’s just the way God made you. And part of growing up is leaving behind some things you love, and unfortunately that stings a little, and it’s hard to get used to. But you will manage it, I promise you.”

Silence. He waited a little longer, then ventured into dangerous territory.

“You have people that love you and care about you and want you to do well. Your father wants you to grow up to be a strong man who can look after himself, and your mother wants you to go to a boarding school to learn that. And that means that you have to leave Nanny behind. Even though it hurts.”

“They don’t love me,” the small voice said.

Aziraphale’s breath caught. “Who doesn’t?”

“Mom and dad. They want me to be the perfect son, but they don’t actually love me.”

“Of course they do, of course –”

“And Nanny doesn’t love me either, else she would have stayed. She would have fought for me, she would have made them listen.”

He couldn’t let that stand. “No, Warlock. That’s not true, and you know it. Nanny loves you very much, but she doesn’t have a choice. She is employed to do a job, and now this part of that job is over.”

Aziraphale thought of the grim expression on Crowley’s face as she’d left being Nanny Ashtoreth behind, thought of the rough-voiced request to watch over Warlock for _just another week_, thought of the bottles of whiskey he’d seen with her suitcase in the back of the Bentley, thought of the casual invitation to come to the Mayfair flat and wake her up if she didn’t surface within a month. “And she won’t be able to see you anymore, but that doesn’t mean she’ll _ever_ stop loving you. Okay?”

Another grunt. It was better than nothing.

“And I love you too, Warlock. Okay?”

“Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“I...” He couldn’t hide it. The boy probably already knew, anyway. “No, my dear. I’m so sorry. I’m leaving at the end of the week.”

There was a burst of motion as Warlock launched himself to standing and whirled around to face Brother Francis head-on. Aziraphale realised with a tug to his heart that the child’s cheeks were wet again, fresh tears streaming down his face.

“See? You don’t care either. You’re just leaving too. _Everyone_ is _leaving_!”

“Warlock, I –”

“No! You’re just as bad as she is! I – I _hate_ you!”

There was fury there, and bitterness, and painful, terrible loss, but Aziraphale couldn’t see anything of the Antichrist, no matter how hard he tried. All he could see was a lost, scared little boy, who needed a hug from his Nanny and the security that nothing would ever change.

_You’re soft, Aziraphale. He’s the Adversary, child of the Devil himself. He’s not even human._

“Warlock, I love you –”

“Shut up! I hate you! I hate all of you!”

He turned and fled. Aziraphale stayed there, under the apple tree, for a long while, thinking.

_Oh, I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing._

_**London, August 2019** (Three Days Before the End of the World)_

The birthday itself appeared all of a rush, like time had gotten bored of its slow creeping towards the end and had decided to just throw itself headlong at the finish line to get it over with. One day they were playing catch in the garden with an adorable ten-year-old, the next they were sat in Crystal Palace Park, watching the same child argue with his mother and scribble rude things on plaques about dinosaurs, and then the next they were overseeing his eleventh birthday as he came into enough power to destroy the world. _They grow up so fast_, the sardonic voice in Aziraphale’s head muttered.

There was a lot to do that morning, although little of it by Aziraphale. Crowley had gotten himself hired as part of the staff for the day, so was put in charge of arranging furniture and checking security and things like that. The angel had thought Crowley would like that, getting to offer Warlock some safety and protection, one last time. But the demon seemed to brush it off, getting on with the job without putting in any of the care and love he’d seen Nanny Ashtoreth use for the past several years. He seemed... distant.

_Are you okay?_

The two of them had agreed to pretend not to know each other, in case anyone from either of their sides decided to pop in to see the Antichrist meet his hellhound. They played their roles well, though, and Aziraphale had a short list of things he could ask for to give them an excuse to talk.

“Um, excuse me sir?”

“Yes?”

“Could I possibly get a glass of water?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The demon returned a moment later, all senses having scanned the area. He offered Aziraphale a plastic cup. “No one’s looking.”

“How’s it going?” Aziraphale sipped, keeping up the act.

“Pretty well. Perimeter’s secure, everything’s set up. Kids are getting here in about half an hour, they’ll do pass-the-parcel for the latest iPhone, have lunch, then you’ll do your thing, and by then it should be about three. After that it’s cake and presents and then the other kids will get sent home and the boy can play with his new... toys.” _The dog. If he decides to keep it._

“Good. Sounds like it’s all in hand.”

“Mhm.”

Crowley looked around, searching for something to do. Aziraphale watched him, trying to work out how to phrase what he wanted to say next.

“Crowley...” he began.

“You done with that?”

“What? Oh, yes.” He handed back the empty cup. “Ah, Crowley, I just wanted to...” The demon was still scanning the area, circling Aziraphale to look at all angles. “Well, I mean to say...” He wasn’t even looking at him, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was because he was wary of Hell or Heaven turning up, or because he knew what the angel was going to say.

_Calm down. Just ask him._

Aziraphale took a breath. “Crowley, are you okay?”

“Hmm?” The demon looked round, to all appearances surprised by the question. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit... you know. Not _nervous_, but...” He shrugged non-committally. “Why?”

“W-why?” Aziraphale was a little taken aback. “Well, I just... Because it’s _Warlock_, you know. I thought you might be a little... uncomfortable. Being so close to him but not being able to say hello.”

“Oh.” Crowley wasn’t looking at him. Or at Warlock, who was currently visible through the patio doors, apparently arguing with his mother about something or other again. “Nah, ’m fine. ’S good.”

Then he stalked off in a sudden burst of movement and disappeared around a corner. Aziraphale didn’t follow him.

_Oh, Crowley. What am I going to do with you?_

It was difficult for him, Aziraphale knew. It was difficult for both of them, really, but Crowley more so. He’d been closer to the boy as Nanny Ashtoreth than Brother Francis had been, and he’d always been better at knowing what to do around children than Aziraphale had. He’d had fun with Warlock, he’d taught him things, he’d made memories with the child – and now he was going to have to watch him reclaim his birth right, and choose whether or not to destroy the Earth.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley for two weeks after the angel had shed Brother Francis’ clothes and face for good. Aziraphale had busied himself with reading everything he might not get a chance to ever again in three months’ time, and he’d tried not to watch the days slip past, one after another, without sight nor sound of the demon.

And then Crowley had sauntered into the shop one afternoon, unannounced, hair suddenly shorter and more messily cool than Nanny’s smooth hairdo, clothes noticeably more casual than hers had been, and with different pronouns to cap it off. He’d offered to take Aziraphale to lunch, and the whole time he’d avoided talking about Warlock or Armageddon at all.

The whole thing felt, now he looked back on it, remarkably like Rome.

Watching him in the months since, Aziraphale had wondered what he’d done in those three weeks. Half discorporated himself drinking, like with the Spanish Inquisition? Slept through the whole thing, like the latter decades of the 1800s? A bit of both?

One thing he certainly _had_ done was force himself to compartmentalise. Warlock Dowling, the little boy he’d raised, didn’t exist anymore for Crowley. Warlock-the-Antichrist, whose birthday it was and whose hellhound would be turning up soon, who had been influenced with as much balance as possible and who would shortly be deciding all their fates, was the only one who existed now.

Nothing had made that clearer than their conversation in Crystal Palace Park.

They’d sat on a bench together, waiting for the Antichrist and his mother to walk by, keeping an eye on him from a distance. Warlock had been grumpy and acting out, but gone were the times when Nanny could quieten that with a hug and a gentle song or a gruesome story.

“Do you think we’ve done enough?” Aziraphale had asked as the child came into view.

“Well, we’ve done everything we can,” Crowley had said. “All we can do now is wait for his birthday.”

_Business again, serious stuff._ No sentiment attached, no hint of what had happened three months ago.

They’d talked about hellhounds and names. About what would happen if they hadn’t quite done it all right. And then Crowley had said something that Aziraphale genuinely couldn’t understand.

“If there was no boy... then the process would stop.”

Aziraphale had stared at him, entirely confused by this pointless hypothetical. “Yes, but there _is_ a boy. He’s over there, writing a rude word on a description of a dinosaur.”

“Well, there is a boy _now_,” Crowley had emphasised, and Aziraphale still didn’t have a clue what he was getting at. “That could change.”

_But there is one. You know that, you’ve been raising him as your own for the past six years. How could that change?_

“Something could _happen_ to him.”

_Happen? What, to make him _not_ be the Antichrist? No, if that was possible you’ve have suggested it ages ago, not two weeks before the end of the world. What are you...?_

“I’m saying you could kill him.”

The words were said so bluntly, so forcefully, with such lack of compassion or care, they took a moment to sink in.

_Wait. What?_

Had he had a hold of himself, Aziraphale might have been tempted to rip those infernal glasses off Crowley’s face and demand he explain himself, or perhaps straight up smite him back to Hell for being an imposter. As it was, he was simply stunned.

_You can’t seriously be suggesting... But it’s Warlock! Warlock, for Heaven’s sake! You... you can’t..._

Aziraphale stared at the demon in front of him. Then he looked over at the child.

The boy was still making a nuisance of himself, as children often tended to. But he wasn’t... He wasn’t _evil_. Aziraphale was certain of that. Antichrist or not, Warlock was not a bad person.

_Crowley, how on Earth could you...? He’s Warlock!_

This from the demon who had been revolted at the Flood, who had immediately asked about the children. _Not the kids, you can’t kill kids._

This from the demon who had walked back from watching the barons force a truce with the king, blessing people as he went and grinning at every baby he saw. _The smiles he gave the children..._

This from the demon who had once let slip that he didn’t _want_ to be a demon, who most remembered feeling _safe_ and _happy_ and _loved_ before he Fell, who had spent the best part of the last decade raising _this very child_ to be the best he could be.

_You can’t mean that. I know he’s the Antichrist, I know that. But even so..._

_Whatever else he is, he’s still our little boy. How could you even consider that?_

It was in that moment that he had realised some of what Crowley must be feeling. _To be prepared to go to that length..._

_Look. I know you’re scared. I am too. But you can’t give up on him now. You can’t always assume the worst. You have to..._

Aziraphale wanted to tell him to have hope, faith, belief – but that was asking far too much of a demon. With nothing better to say, he retreated to the security of another lie.

“I’ve never actually... _killed_ anything.”

And then he spoke for both of them, because he knew, with a sudden fierce certainty, that it was true for Crowley too, no matter what he had just said: “I don’t think I could.”

“Not even to save _everything_?” _Oh stop, Crowley please, stop, this isn’t you._ “One life, against the universe.”

He dared consider it, just for a second. Would it... could it ever be right? Ever be worth it? Even if it wasn’t Warlock, if it was just some random boy they didn’t know?

_Angels are supposed to be kind. What does that mean for Warlock?_ Would it be kinder to let him live, to watch him twist himself into a force of darkness, torn apart by anger and hate? Would it be kinder to kill him, to let everyone else survive? No, surely not – surely it would be kinder to give him the _choice_, to give him the chance to prove himself, to have hope and faith that it would all be okay. Surely that was what was right. Surely?

And the child was _right there_, and they’d helped him grow up _together_, and it was all Aziraphale could do to not run over there and shield him from Crowley with every holy thing he could think of.

He felt his lower lip begin to tremble. He couldn’t stand it.

He changed the subject.

Now, stood at the edge of the boy’s eleventh birthday, watching the first of the party-goers arrive and waiting for the inevitable, he shut his eyes for a moment. He pictured Warlock as he was two, four, six years ago, still so tiny, still so strong. That beautiful child’s grin, those wide adoring eyes, those easy hugs and easy tears and the fullness of simply being alive.

In every image, Nanny was there too: holding her arms out to Warlock as he toddled towards her; grinning down at him when he laughed; holding him close when he cried. _What happened, Crowley? What happened?_

He didn’t let himself fear that Heaven had been right, all those millennia ago. No, he knew the demon well enough now to be certain on that front. But it was still difficult to watch.

_I’m so sorry, Crowley. I truly am._

_**London, August 2019** (One Day Before the End of the World)_

The phone had rung, and he’d grabbed it immediately.

“It’s me. Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous.”

“Is that the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, or the British Museum café?”

“The bandstand!” came the exasperated reply. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Aziraphale had rushed out the door to meet him, still not certain what he was going to say. So many things still ricocheting around his mind. So many truths and lies, so many hopes and losses, so many conflicting loyalties.

He’d slowed down as he’d gotten nearer. It took him five minutes to walk what should have been the last two.

_I’ve just told Heaven the truth, or close to it. What if someone’s watching?_

The demon was waiting for him, a stick-thin slash of night in the slowly-gathering dusk.

“Well?” Crowley asked right off the bat, as Aziraphale stepped into the ring. “Any news?”

“Um... What-what kind of news would that be?”

“Well, have you found the missing Antichrist’s name, address, and shoe size yet?”

_What?! Does he know?_

“His shoe size?” Aziraphale spluttered out, trying his hardest not to panic. “Why – why would I have his shoe size?”

“It’s a joke,” Crowley said, tension radiating from him. “I’ve got nothing either.”

_Right. Of course. He – he doesn’t know. He can’t. And I can’t tell him._

The angel searched for something to say. “It’s – it’s the Great Plan, Crowley.”

“Yeah. For the record: great pustulent mangled bollocks to the _Great blasted Plan_!” The shout was directed upwards, the rage palpable, the fear buried within it. Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. He looked around, hoping no one was watching.

“May you be forgiven.”

Crowley snarled and rounded on him. “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. Part of a demon’s job description. Unforgivable, it’s _what I am_.”

_No. No, that’s not true. That’s why I’m doing all of this. To save you._

“You were an angel once,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound hopeful, trying to sound anything other than afraid.

“That was a long time ago.”

For a second Aziraphale thought Crowley was just going to walk off. Then he stepped right up close – serious, intense, almost like he had not that long ago in what used to be a nunnery. Almost.

“We find the boy,” Crowley said, giving the words a forcefulness likely designed to convince himself just as much as Aziraphale. “My agents can do it.”

“And then what? We eliminate him?” _You wanted me to kill Warlock a few days ago. Do you want me to kill this new child instead, now?_

Crowley looked evasive for a moment. “Someone does. I’m not personally up for killing kids.”

_Ah, there it is. Focus drifts and now you can’t separate yourself anymore. There’s a dead child at the end of that thought, and you don’t want to be the one to put him there._

“You’re the demon,” Aziraphale snapped. “I’m the nice one. I don’t have to kill children.”

“Uh-uh-uh,” Crowley began, but Aziraphale was in full flow now.

“If _you_ kill him, then the world gets a reprieve and Heaven does not have blood on its hands.” _And you’re seen to be disobeying Hell, helping humanity, being in service of Good. Maybe if the war doesn’t happen, that’ll work just as well as the justice Heaven would give you when they won._

He didn’t say that, though. And so Crowley heard something very different indeed.

“Oh, no blood on your hands?” the demon said, in a voice that smacked of the anger of _fraternising_. “That’s a bit holier-than-thou, isn’t it?”

“Well I am, a great deal holier than thou, that’s the whole point.”

“You should kill the boy yourself,” the demon said, sarcastic temptation dripping from the words. “Holy-ly.”

“I am _not_ –” Aziraphale could tell he was beginning to shout and caught himself, checking again to see if anyone was watching. “– killing anybody,” he finished, daring to look Crowley in the eye. It lasted for all of two seconds before he couldn’t bear it anymore.

“This is ridiculous. _You_ are ridiculous,” Crowley said. “I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”

“Well frankly, neither do I.”

“Enough, I’m leaving.” He turned on his heel and marched off, and Aziraphale was certain for a second that he had stolen a chunk out of the angel’s chest to take with him.

“You can’t leave, Crowley,” he said, utterly failing to conceal the desperation in his voice. “There isn’t anywhere to go.”

The demon stopped at the other side of the bandstand, and turned to look at him. He spread his arms wide, palms out. “It’s a big universe.” He stood there, like he was offering himself somehow.

And then he did.

“Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can... go off together.”

All the tension left Aziraphale, all the fears and the conflict and the anger, and for a moment it was replaced by pure, selfish _want_.

“...Go off together?”

_Escape everything. All of this – Heaven versus Hell, the end of humanity, the end of the world. Just the two of them, lost in space, ignoring everything but each other. One a demon who should never have been one. One an angel with far too many memories and lies._

_It would never work._

“Listen to yourself.” He forced the cruel words out of his mouth, hating himself as he did so.

Crowley didn’t flinch. “How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!”

_Friends? Good Lord, we’re not _friends_, Crowley. We’re not – we haven’t ever been – we –_

He found himself saying the words before he could stop himself. But they didn’t sound right, weren’t enough, didn’t make sense.

He couldn’t look at him. _Keep going. Explain. We’re on opposite sides. It has to be like this so I can save you. Please._

“We are an _angel_ and a _demon_. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you!”

_Well, that went well._

“You _do_,” the demon said, with the unwavering confidence of someone who’d experienced six millennia of wavering and drunken nights and distancing and shared meals and barefaced lying and simple friendly intimacy.

Aziraphale whirled round from where he had been, about to leave, and started across the circle. “Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I _wouldn’t tell you_. We’re on _opposite sides_!”

_Don’t. You’re so close to telling him. Stop now. You need to leave._

Crowley prowled closer, teeth bared, almost hissing as he spoke. “We’re on _our_ side.”

_Our side._ The words echoed around them both, almost filling the bandstand, filling the park. Anyone could hear it, if they were listening. Anyone could hear the sound of two hearts about to break.

“There is no _our side_, Crowley.”

_But there is, there is!_ some part of him screamed. _There is, please, there is!_

He compromised. “Not anymore.”

_No, no, that hurts more._

_Drive the dagger home, then._

“It’s over.”

Crowley looked like he’d just had all the air sucked out of his lungs. Gut-punch, perhaps, or constrictor snake. The vacuum of space. A partnership ended in the same breath as it was finally acknowledged.

“Right,” he said, at a loss. He paused, as if waiting for Aziraphale to backtrack. Silence. “Well, then...”

He grunted acceptance, and turned away.

The angel tried to watch him go, and felt his heart tugging at his ribs to let it go with him. He looked away.

“Have a nice doomsday,” the demon snarked over his shoulder as he left the bandstand.

He vanished quickly into the gathering gloom, and Aziraphale was left there. Alone.

Cold, lonely, and broken-hearted, in the middle of an empty park in the last days before Armageddon.

_Oh, Crowley. What have I done?_

_**London, 2019** (The Last Day of the World)_

He was deep in thought, and so didn’t see them coming. Didn’t see them arrange themselves to stop him from getting away. Didn’t see them pull the metaphorical wool over the passing humans’ eyes, hiding him from their view and any hope of outside help.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

He jumped. “Oh, Michael!” There she was, right in front of him. “Uriel,” he continued, greeting the second angel with a polite nod. Then, with a shiver running down his spine, he noticed the third, hovering just behind him. “Sandalphon.”

The group moved in synchronisation, and he unwittingly moved with them, only realising when it was too late that they’d backed him into a corner, against the wall. “Hello, um –”

Michael cut him off. “We’ve just been learning some rather disturbing things about you.”

The concrete was rough and cold against his back. _What do they mean? Why are they here? I told them, I tried to tell them about the Antichrist. Surely they can’t hold that against me?_

Michael ignored his expression, getting into the flow of her silky-smooth interrogation. “You’ve been a bit of a... fallen angel, haven’t you?” _Well, that’s an interesting point, because I haven’t, actually – Fallen, that is – so –_ “Consorting with the enemy...” _Ah._

“Oh, I-I-I haven’t been consorting,” he began. _I didn’t tell him about the Antichrist! I told you, and I didn’t tell him!_ He could feel himself beginning to panic, and wished he had something other than the edge of an alleyway to hold onto for support.

Uriel spoke next, distain in every syllable of their words. “Don’t think your boyfriend in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell. He’s in trouble too.”

A complicated mix of emotions flooded Aziraphale’s brain,[20] but his mind elected to ignore them. He could feel his face stretching into what he hoped approximated a tension-diffusing smile, and he tried to focus his rapidly-spiralling mind on getting out of this confrontation with his wings still intact.

“Aziraphale,” Michael said, and the angel looked at her, helpless to do otherwise. “It’s time to choose sides,” she said meaningfully.

Aziraphale began to mirror her nod. _This I can do. It’s a conversation, a debate. She’s listening – explain._

“I...” he began, stuttering a little. “I’ve actually been giving that a lot of thought, the, um... whole ‘choosing sides’ thing.” The angels showed no sign of stopping him talking, so he took heart from that and ploughed on. “Um. What _I_ think... is that there obviously _has to be_ two sides, that’s the whole point, so people can make choices, that’s – that’s what being human means. Choices!”

_This is terrifying. But they’re listening! Keep calm, keep calm, you stupid angel. They’re humouring you – use it. Make them understand. You can do this._

“But that’s... that’s for them,” he continued, pointing vaguely at the passers-by who didn’t know any of them existed right now. “Our job as-as-as angels,” he motioned to the group of them, daring to include himself in the assessment, “should be to keep all this working, so _they_,” he pointed at the oblivious, human-filled street again, “can make choices.”

Uriel gave him a scathing look. “You think too much.”

And then something wholly unexpected happened. Sandalphon stepped up and punched him hard in the stomach.

Before he had anywhere near enough time to process this turn of events, Uriel was on top of him, their hands gripping the collar of his coat, their raw strength pushing him painfully against the wall. Aziraphale gasped, struggling for air, and then looked around at the three of them, lost and hurt and confused.

“You... You mustn’t!”

Uriel was looking him up and down, like predator deciding whether or not their prey was even suitable to eat.

“Why would you do this?” Aziraphale asked. He turned to the others, pleading with them to see reason. “We’re the good guys...”

_Well, in light of recent, currently-happening events... maybe that’s not entirely right._

“Well, I-I-I have to warn you,” he said instead, swallowing down the ball of fear that had knotted itself in his throat. “That I’m going to take this entire interaction up with – up with...” _Don’t just say God, they’ll laugh at you. She hasn’t spoken to anyone as lowly as you in millennia._ “A higher authority,” he finished, hoping it was a strong enough ending.

Uriel looked sceptical. “You really think Upstairs will take your call?” Then they leaned in closer, and Aziraphale could see every glimmer of Heaven on their skin, could feel the surging power of them just beneath the surface, could feel the venom in the words that dripped from their lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

Without any warning, a noise sounded that apparently only the celestials could hear. It was at once foreign and familiar, distanced by time and yet so instantly recognisable. _Heavenly trumpets._

Uriel looked up at the noise and then withdrew all at once, stepping back and dropping Aziraphale’s collar. The object of their intimidation couldn’t help but look up too, but only the grey London sky was visible to him.

“Oh!” Uriel said, and Aziraphale looked at them again, tensed for what was coming next. But they were smiling, looking genuinely pleased, somehow. “This is great. It’s starting.” And then their expression dropped back into loathing, and Aziraphale recoiled internally.

_What happens now? And they going to drag me back Upstairs? Are they going to make me fight? I don’t have my sword – they’ll reprimand me for that. How will they punish me when there’s a war starting? Surely they won’t make me Fall _now_, that’s just giving a soldier to the other side..._

Before Aziraphale was even half done fretting, the other angels moved as one. They looked upwards, bent their knees, and then jumped, vanishing into a Heavenly light that had appeared around them.

Relief flooded in, followed swiftly by righteous anger.

“You... you... bad angels!”

It was a weak finish, but it was the most harshly accurate phrasing he could come up with. _Angels are supposed to be kind. Beating up and intimidating one of your own hardly qualifies as ‘kind’, does it? So they are bad at being what they should be. Worse even than me._

He needed to speak to God. That was the upshot of all this. The angels and archangels he was supposed to report to had gone rogue, or at least were too focused on winning the war to attempt to avoid it. _We’re meant to be protectors of humanity! Did you forget about that?_

Aziraphale knew what he had to do. He didn’t like it – would never normally dream of it, and if it wasn’t for the fact that there was so little time left, then he wouldn’t do it at all – but he was going to have to go over Gabriel’s head. The archangel had been less than receptive to the idea of avoiding war, so he clearly couldn’t be trusted to help, and apparently neither could his colleagues. So further up the hierarchy was the only way to go.

The problem was who to contact. Aziraphale hadn’t been in Heaven for longer than a couple of hours in... Well, it had been _centuries_, at the very least. If you extended the timeframe to ‘longer than a day’, then it had been over six thousand years. That meant he wasn’t exactly in close contact with anyone from Heaven.

Aside from that, there were precious few angels he actually _knew_. Before Eden, there had only been a small group of angels he had been friends with. If he was honest, most of those only really counted as acquaintances.

Most of them were in different departments, too, doing things Aziraphale had no understanding of, and would have no sway over the whole ‘starting a war to wipe out humanity and beat Hell once and for all’ thing. Even discounting that, none of them were higher up than Gabriel.

Two of them were entirely out of the picture – they had been some of the first angels to die in a newly-created weapon called ‘hellfire’.

And one of them had Fallen, and was now running around London with a different name and the fresh yet ardent belief that Aziraphale wanted nothing more to do with him.

_You know the answer_, he thought to himself. _You have to go direct. Straight to the top. A higher authority – _the_ Authority._

_You have to ask God._

It was a dangerous option – well, not _dangerous_ as such, simply highly taboo, as only a few angels were granted rare access to the Almighty, and Aziraphale was decidedly not one of them. Although, considering recent events, maybe ‘dangerous’ _was_ the right word. The angel could very clearly picture Gabriel’s reaction in his mind, and it was... not positive.

Just as Aziraphale was pondering this new fear, a roughly snake-shaped obstacle interrupted him. The Bentley pulled up in a rush, and Crowley tumbled out, calling to him.

“Angel! I’m sorry.” The demon hurried onto the pavement and stood there, arms out, offering himself again, just as he had last night. “I apologise. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it.”

_Whatever I said._ Aziraphale sighed. He didn’t get it.

_This isn’t your fault, Crowley. I’m not... I’m not really angry at you. I’m angry at this, at everything._

_No, wait, I am angry at you, too. Because you want to run away. You want to give up._

_We can’t give up. I need to do this. I have to try._

“Work with me, I’m apologising here. Yes? Good. Get in the car.”

“What? No.”

Crowley looked scared, he realised. Actually scared, and desperate. His next words as good as confirmed that.

“The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault.” _Oh shit._ “But we can run away together. Alpha Centauri!”

Aziraphale’s eyes followed the line of Crowley’s hand, thrust upwards toward the sky. The angel didn’t doubt he was pointing right at it; when they had both been in Heaven together, who Crowley was Before had helped build the universe. Alpha Centauri had been his.

The angel shook himself and looked away. _No, don’t even consider it._

“Lots of spare planets up there,” Crowley continued. “Nobody would even notice us.”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth and fell back into the argument from last night. “Crowley, you’re being ridiculous.”

But no, he deserved more than that. _Explain._

“Look, I-I-I’m quite sure if I can just...” his eyes flicked to the demon’s desperate face. He knew what the response would be even before he finished his sentence. “...just reach the right people,” he continued anyway, “then I can get all this sorted out.”

“There aren’t any right people,” Crowley said, and he was right in front of him now, practically begging. “There’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us.”

“Well, yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it.” The words sounded flimsy, even to his own ears. _But I have to try, Crowley. Don’t you see? I have to at least try._

“That won’t happen.” It was painfully blunt, hurtfully dismissive. It wasn’t meant as an insult, not really. He was just scared. Terrified.

Aziraphale could see it, even through those infernal sunglasses. Crowley was utterly terrified, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, other than abandon the only plan he had – and that certainly wasn’t going to happen either.

Crowley shook his head, horror and confusion and fear mixed there in a heart-wrenching mess. “You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be _so_ stupid?”

_I... Crowley..._

He floundered for a moment, caught on a sudden ocean of emotion that was sincerely attempting to wash him away.

_Please don’t. I have to do this. I have to try. We can’t just leave, there’s so many people here. Think of what we’d lose._

_I need to ask Her. I need to ask Her to save the Earth. And I need to ask Her to forgive you._

There was the truth of it. Apart from anything else, apart from the Apocalypse and the Antichrist and the behaviour of certain angels and every other world-ending-related reason, Aziraphale needed to talk with God for Crowley’s sake.

The demon had spent so much time rescuing him over the last few thousand years, and now he was angry and terrified when Aziraphale tried to return the favour. It wasn’t fair, and it _hurt_.

_I’m doing this for _you_. If I can just get to the right person, if I can just speak to Her... She’ll understand. She’ll know the truth – She’ll know we’re right. And She’ll get them to stop all this, and She’ll forgive you because you are _not_ unforgivable, and maybe you’ll get your memories back and maybe you won’t, but at the very least you’ll be safe. They’ll have to listen to Her. So you’ll be safe._

Aziraphale couldn’t say any of that, though. Not here, not now. Crowley wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe that it was possible. He didn’t have the faith that the angel did, and that was all quite understandable. But that meant that right now, he was scared and desperate. He felt that running away was the best option.

_She’ll forgive you. She will. You’re not unforgivable, Crowley. You’re not._

“I forgive you.”

The demon stared at him for a second, blank shock across his features, before he dismissed Aziraphale as a lost cause and ran away again. He strode to his car, opening the door of the Bentley and half climbing in, before turning back to yell at him again.

“I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving. And when I am off in the stars, I won't even _think_ about you.”

Aziraphale could feel his resolve crumbling, tears welling up unbidden, but he stood his ground. The Bentley drove off, fast and angry. The angel stood there, watching after it.

“I’ve been there,” said a voice, sympathetic and supportive. Aziraphale looked down to see a human stood beside him, a passer-by in the street, who’d overheard the conversation and seen it for almost exactly what it was. “You’re better off without him.”

_No. No, I’m not. But he can’t do this next bit. I need to do this alone._

He gave the human a blessing all the same, wishing him good fortune for his day, even if it was the last one he might ever see. Then he steeled himself and went back inside the bookshop to do what had to be done.

The covered windows and the locked shop. The circle. The candles.

It was simple enough, really, but it was professional, and that was the important thing. _Make a good impression._

As he lit the last candle and straightened up, looking around to check everything was in order, he took a breath. _You have to get this right. This is your chance to fix it all. This is the final turning point._

He adjusted his waistcoat and straightened his bow tie, then brought his hands together in prayer and closed his eyes.

“Hello. This is the Principality Aziraphale. I’m looking for, um... a higher authority. Is there anybody there?”

There was a rough knock at the door, and Aziraphale opened his eyes, looking towards the sound. He’d pulled the blinds down earlier, so he had no idea who it could be, but it certainly wasn’t Crowley, and that was the only thing that really mattered.

The angel didn’t move from his post beside the circle. “We’re closed!” he called out, and then screwed his eyes tight shut again, demanding his concentration back.

“This really is frightfully important. I’m prepared to take this all the way to the top.”

With a click and an odd ratcheting sound, the circle opened. Aziraphale’s eyes flew open too, and he dropped his hands as he looked down at the suddenly glowing area below him, stepping back a little in awe. _It... it worked. They’re ready to listen._

He reached out, only semi-consciously, for the support of the bookcase to his left and the desk to his right, and then dared to look upwards, searching for a face or a voice in the unreal light that was filtering down from somewhere far beyond the domed skylight.

He breathed out sharply. “I, um... I-I-I need to speak to the Almighty.”

“Speak, Aziraphale.”

Something inside him squealed, but somehow he remained mostly calm on the outside. A face was beginning to form in the cone of light that had activated the circle, and it was that which had spoken. A voice from Heaven. The voice of...

He dared ask the question. “Am I speaking to... ah... God?”

Only then did the face hovering over the circle become clear. An angel, of roughly similar form to himself,[21] was looking down at him, larger than life.

“You are speaking to the Metatron, Aziraphale,” the projected angel in the circle said, and he looked proud of that fact, and pleased at the awed expression on the caller’s face.

Ordinarily, that in itself would be a great honour, but Aziraphale frowned. _That’s... not who I asked for._

“To speak to me is to speak to God. I am the voice of the Almighty.”

“Well, yes, but you are the voice of the Almighty in the same way that, ah, a presidential spokesperson is the voice of the president. I actually need to speak _directly_ to God.” He shot a hopeful look in the direction of the projection, waiting to be put through.

The Metatron looked ever so slightly put out. “What is said to me is said to the Almighty,” he said flatly.

Well, Aziraphale didn’t exactly believe that. But now was not the time to argue the toss.

“Well, Aziraphale?”

The angel sighed and steeled himself. _Go for it, then. Now’s your chance._

“Well, I want to complain about the conduct of a few angels, but the-the _important_ thing is the Antichrist. I know who he is.” The Metatron raised his eyebrows. “I know _where_ he is.”

“Good work, well done.” The response was lacklustre at best. The Metatron sounded almost bored with the conversation. _Doesn’t he realise how important this all is?_

The angel ploughed on anyway. “So there doesn’t need to be any of that nonsense about, um, a third of the seas turning to blood, or anything – there needn’t be a war. We can save everyone!”

“The point is not to avoid the war, the point is to win it.”

The feeling was less one of plummeting from an aircraft to certain death, and more akin to sinking gradually, sluggishly, into warm tar.

_They... They don’t want to avoid it._

Gabriel wasn’t in the minority. The angels that had faced him down earlier weren’t a rouge bunch. This was _policy_.

“Ah,” he said, for want of anything better. He blinked, gaze drifting down, mind scrambling for purchase. “What sort of, ah, initiating event will precipitate the war?”

“We thought a multi-nation nuclear exchange would be a nice _start_.”

The Metatron said the word ‘start’ heavily, as it if was pathetic in its mere existence, as if the obliteration of all life on Earth through a series of intensely destructive nuclear reactions were hardly even worth calling a ripple in the great ocean of the war that was to come. He, the Metatron, voice of the Almighty, would be making great tsunamis, soon. What difference did it make if a few billion humans were killed off first?

Aziraphale dropped his gaze from the projection. “Very imaginative,” he said quietly.

“The battle commences, Aziraphale. Join us!”

_Ah. No._

“In a jiffy,” he lied, suddenly looking around again, trying to find a way out of this. _I can’t give up now, I just can’t._ “Two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” His eyes lit on the phone, tucked away in a back corner to his left, just out of reach. “Just a couple of things left to tie up.”

“We will leave the gateway open for you, then.” _The Tadfield notes are on the wall, but I think I’ve got everything I need in the book. I can take it to Crowley, show him everything..._ “Do not dawdle.”

Aziraphale realised the Metatron had probably expected an answer to that, and garbled one out as the projection faded from view. “Yes, jolly, ah... Jolly good.”

The light from above faded somewhat as the line of conversation was cut, leaving only the direct access point to Heaven. Aziraphale looked again at the phone, then began to edge carefully around the circle to get to it.

_Oh, dear._

Crowley had been right, of course he had. He’d realised the truth long ago, and Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see it. Because he still believed that Heaven was supposed to be in the interests of humanity. Because he still believed that angels were supposed to be kind.

That was gone now. It was an ideal he would have to mourn later, because there wasn’t time now. No, now he had to put things right. They might still have time. They could do this.

_We can do this. Our own side._

He practically ran to the telephone and instantly called up Crowley on his home phone. _He’ll still be there, he must be, even with his driving he’ll have only just gotten to Mayfair._

There was a scrabbling sound at the door, and Aziraphale looked around, trying to locate the source. Then the call connected.

“Hey, this i–”

“I know where the Antichrist –”

“ –do, do it with style.”

Aziraphale’s brain jarred for a moment. “Well I know who you are, you idiot, I telephoned you. Listen, I know where the Antichrist is.”

Then the call connected again, and the angel suddenly realised his mistake – in the same instant as Crowley threw his so-recently-bruised heart against yet another wall. “Yeah, not a good time, got an old friend here.”

“But –” The line went dead.

It was at that moment that whatever it was that had been happening with the door – whoever it was trying to get in, he now comprehended – finished happening. A human burst into the shop, shouting angrily – a very specific human.

“Sergeant Shadwell?”

“You _monster_. Seducing women to do your evil will.”

_Well that’s definitely not right._ “Oh, I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong shop.”

“You are possessed by a demon,” Shadwell said decisively. “And I will exorcise you, with bell, book and candle.”

The irony of the statement didn’t escape Aziraphale, but he was unable to make any sort of quip to that effect because he was rapidly overcome with the realisation that the witchfinder was moving perilously close to the edge of a portal directly to Heaven – one that would kill him as surely as holy water would destroy a demon.

“Yes, ah, fine, but please, keep away from the circle, it’s, it’s still powered up.”

It all happened rather quickly after that. Shadwell seemed to acquire everything he needed for his ‘exorcism’ from items around the shop – rather rudely claiming Agnes Nutter’s prophecies as the book and flatly ignoring the many candles around him in favour of a cigarette lighter – and then the angel made the rather silly mistake of stepping back into the circle’s active area.

There was a moment of pause. Then he felt the fizz of energy surrounding him as the portal initiated itself, and felt the power of it all begin to seep into the delicate seams of his corporation.

_Well, that rather puts a spanner in the works_, he thought.

"FUCK," he said, and discorporated.

It all worked out in the end, though.

_**London, 2019** (The Last Day of the World)_

The world ended. And then it didn’t.

For one shining minute, they’d done it. The Antichrist and his friends had banished the Four Horsepersons, Gabriel and Beelzebub had buggered off to their respective Head Offices, and the two of them were left there with a bunch of very confused humans, an eleven-year-old Adversary, and a hellhound.

And then Crowley collapsed.

The ground was shaking, the humans were panicking, and Aziraphale could _feel_ the devil himself arriving, clawing his was up from Hell to the Earth, dragging himself to the surface to confront his disobedient son.

Crowley looked up at him, eyes far too wide and expressive, and every atom of them expressing hopelessness.

“Right. That was that. It was nice knowing you.”

_No, please. We were so close. We _are_ so close._

“We can’t give up now.”

“This is Satan himself. It isn’t about Armageddon, this is personal. We are FUCKED.”

_NO. I don’t care that it’s Satan. God Herself couldn’t stop me now. If She wanted to, She would have already. Now, She couldn’t. I wouldn’t let Her. Not when we’re so close. So what’s one King of Hell to deal with?_

The ground gave another firm shake. Aziraphale cast around desperately for something to do, some way to help. His gaze landed on a sword, _his_ sword, from all that time ago. He picked it up.

_At the very least, we can go out fighting._

He turned to Crowley. The demon was still on his knees, looking more terrified than Aziraphale had ever seen him. 

_No. Don’t you give up on me. I’ve lost too much to not do this. We’re so close. Do something._

“Come up with something, or...”

Crowley’s eyes were wide, horrified, staring up at the angel with a raised sword above him, a God-given weapon that he’d given away almost immediately and never thought he’d hold ever again. _Well, desperate times._

The demon looked at the angel, at the holy weapon, at the angel again. The unspoken threat was there, but it was useless; Crowley knew he’d never do it. He hadn’t even ignited the sword. _No, I need something worse. Fear is a motivating factor – what would scare Crowley the most?_

The answer came as if flown in on two pairs of pure white wings.

“Or I’ll never talk to you again.”

The shot hit, square in the chest, and he saw the flare in Crowley’s eyes. It was _how dare you?_, it was _ouch, that hurt_, it was _no, please, anything but that_. He saw the hopelessness and horror morph into pain, and then into determination.

It had worked. The demon snapped out of it, and looked around, and summoned all the energy and miracle power he could and dragged it, kicking and screaming, up from Hell and into the sky.

For a fraction of a second, nothing existed.

Then there was a calm feeling, a sense of release and contentment and warmth. A feeling of home.

They were stood in a desert of some sort, by the looks of it. Cool blue-grey skies above, soft yellow-white sand below. Simple and indifferent. Unaligned. It had all the innocent perfection of a child's drawing. 

It took a second for Aziraphale to realise why exactly he suddenly felt so physically _comfortable_ here. When he did, he couldn’t help but revel in it for a moment. _Oh, Lord, my wings. Thank you, Crowley._

The demon was there with him, as was the Antichrist. The boy looked remarkably unruffled to be stood beside two people who now had huge feathered wings protruding from their backs – but then Adam probably knew about that already, had probably seen what they were from a mile off.

Now was their chance.

Crowley put his sunglasses back on, and Aziraphale ignored the twinge in his stomach that caused. He listened instead, and then spoke when it was his turn, and they were both honest and serious and quietly hopeful.

They spoke to Adam, both of them, and convinced him that _now_ was his moment, that he could make a difference here. And when Aziraphale said the words ‘human incarnate’, he very much believed that that was the best thing anyone could be.

“I’m going to start time. You won’t have long to do whatever you’re going to do.”

The Antichrist nodded that he was ready. Crowley restarted time.

“Do it quickly!”

And then Satan was here, tearing up from beneath the Earth, and every instinct Aziraphale didn’t have was screaming at him to run, but he raised his sword, flames licking across its blade, and stood ready to fight. He was a soldier, he’d trained for this. Whatever Adam was going to do now, Aziraphale would be damned before he’d go down without a fight. Which was, come to think of it, a distinct possibility.

“You’re not my dad.” Adam said. “You never were.”

And Satan crumbled into dust, and Mr Young was there, all of a sudden, because _he was_ his dad, regardless of birth, and finally, _finally_, it was over.

Aziraphale looked around. Somehow, Crowley had ended up right next to him. Not that he was complaining.

The two celestials looked at each other. Then they looked at the human climbing angrily out of his little old car.

“Adam? Adam!”

“That’s not really his father...” Aziraphale said slowly.

“It is. It is _now_,” Crowley said, and the angel could hear the grin in his voice before he even looked at him. “And it always was. _He did it_.”

Mr Young finally reached the ragtag little group and inhaled deeply. “Would anyone here care to explain to me what _exactly_ is going on?”

No one particularly did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17 Interestingly, aside from what had happened in the time Before, the same could pretty much be said for Aziraphale’s attachment to Crowley. Matters of business, opposite sides, needing to keep distance, and yet still the inevitability of the whole thing. Love was messy, no matter what form it came in. It took work sometimes, yes, but often there was an element to it that couldn’t be controlled – and for all his repression, Aziraphale couldn’t seem to prevent that. So although it took a year or so for him to admit it, but now he had come to terms with it – he loved Warlock, and wanted to protect him, and wanted to see that the best was done for him, and that was entirely separate from any need to balance his upbringing for the sake of humanity. Aziraphale loved him because he couldn’t help it, and wasn’t that always the way? [return to text]
> 
> 18 Crowley had had to teach him that word in his training to be a gardener, of course. Apparently ‘clippers’ wasn’t professional enough. [return to text]
> 
> 19 Not that there was any real danger. Antichrist or not, if anything ever happened to the child before Armageddon, both Crowley and Aziraphale would be out for the offender’s soul. And Aziraphale’s intent wouldn’t be Heavenly, either. The whole property was gently miracled to protect Warlock from anything that might cause him more than a light bruise or a scraped knee. [return to text]
> 
> 20 These included shock, fear, hope, confusion, loss, and the distinct thought “well, he never will be _now_, not after what I said”. It was a miserable mixture of feelings that he was currently unwilling to process – and that was probably to his advantage right now, since the angels were unlikely to wait for him to figure things out before proceeding with the intimidation. [return to text]
> 
> 21 Aziraphale didn’t tend to notice detailed features of each person’s look when he first met them, so there was a vast swathe of London residents that fell into the category of ‘of roughly similar form to himself’. In this case, however, the form that looked down at him had the same colour scheme and same masculine basis he himself sported, and was not exactly young-looking. Beyond that, Aziraphale was focused on more important things. [return to text]
> 
> **_Other notes:_**
> 
> Ugh, writing out what happened in Crystal Palace Park from Aziraphale’s viewpoint was extremely difficult. There’s so much going on there, mentally, for Crowley, and honestly a lot of what’s in this chapter would be far more interesting from his POV, but I chose my slight AU and I’m sticking with it. (DON’T let me rewrite the whole thing from Crowley’s viewpoint too, please, I’m begging you.) Anyway, I hope this section worked okay (and that it made sense to slot it into the birthday scene like that?) and kind of explained what’s going on in both their minds just then.
> 
> And hey, Crowley cut his hair! Let’s have [a meta for that](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/189491149357/cadhla-marie-lazulibundtcake-cadhla-marie), shall we?
> 
> Also [this meta](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/190989112703/the-bandstand-requested-by-ravenisflying-you) about the _incredible_ cinematography of the bandstand scene. Thank you tehren for finding the link! Please go read it - every camera move and every _inch_ of the blocking is purposeful and contributes to the scene and it is physically _painful_ to watch and the meta articulates it all perfectly. I couldn’t capture every detail of that in this fic, but everyone should read the meta for an excellent example of film/TV/the moving image as an art form.
> 
> Final meta link (for this chapter): [the one about the Heavenly trumpets](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/190614419863/okay-i-dont-think-said-it-yet-so-i-guess-its). This isn’t massively relevant to this fic because I didn’t write it to include the headcanon inherent in that post, but it’s absolutely amazing and I love it so much, so read it anyway.
> 
> We’re nearly at the end of this journey! Thank you so much to those who have stuck around, I hope you've enjoyed it. There’s only one chapter left, but it’s going to be another long one...


	11. Bodies Borrowed, Feelings True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes_, this title rhymes/matches with the title for Chapter 2 of this fic. Because I’m an idiot and I think I’m funny.
> 
> Alternative chapter title was ‘Forgoing of the Lie’, because Hozier. (Might use that for something else, though...)
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for a panic attack. It's not bad, and it's brief, but I realised I should warn for that.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who’s stuck with me for this fic. It’s the longest thing I’ve ever written and completed, let alone posted for other people to read. Extra thank you to every commenter (especially you wonderful people who commented on every chapter!) who’ve kept me going through this. It means an awful lot.
> 
> This chapter is another ridiculously long one, but I’ve committed now, so sorry not sorry. (Having said that, it did get so ridiculous that there is now an epilogue coming, so stay tuned for that... I promise it won’t take long!)
> 
> Enjoy!

_**London, 2019** (shortly after the world didn’t end)_

The sun set on the airbase as the humans sorted themselves out. Adam’s father ended up demanding they go home in the car, which resulted in the boy’s bike being awkwardly crammed onto the back seat of the tiny vehicle, with the Antichrist and the hellhound sharing the front seat together. The other children followed the car out on their bikes. And then there were six.

“Well, that was all a bit exciting,” Tracey said brightly. “I do think it’s about time for us to get home though now, don’t you, Mr Shadwell?”

The Witchfinder grunted assent, and after Tracey urged them all to keep in touch (somehow acquiring Newt and Anathema’s phone numbers in the process, and saying that she’d get the celestials’ from the Sergeant’s records), the pair of them climbed back on the little moped that had gotten them all there, and drove off. And then there were four.

Aziraphale miracled a cardboard box for the items scattered on the floor and carefully put them all inside. Flaming sword, sans flames? Check. Scales? Check. Crown? Check.

The witch elbowed Newt, who jumped.

“Umm, do you two need a lift anywhere?” he asked quickly.

“Nah, I’ll...” Crowley’s automatic response trailed off into heartbroken silence as his eyes found the still-smouldering remains of the Bentley outside the fence.

“We’ll get the bus,” Aziraphale said quickly.

Anathema looked sceptical. “Where do you live? It’s not exactly well-connected around here, transport-wise.”

“We’ll be fine,” the angel said hurriedly.

“Well, err, least I can do is give you a lift to the bus stop, then,” Newt said. “I don’t suppose there’s one anywhere around here.”

Aziraphale nodded, accepting. “Ah... where are you parked?”

“Oh,” Newt said, and then the pair of them showed the celestials to the fallen tree and the broken fence – in the opposite direction to the Bentley, which Aziraphale was thankful for.

The drive was short and quiet. Once they got back to the centre of the village, the humans dropped them off at a bench and drove away in the direction of Anathema’s cottage. And then it was just the two of them.

Aziraphale put the cardboard box on the bench and slowly sank down beside it. Crowley settled himself at the opposite end, looking pensive.

“Well, that was all a bit of a... a...”

“A lot,” the demon finished. A bottle of wine had materialised in his hand, and he drank deeply before passing it over to Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” the angel said quietly, and hoped Crowley knew it was for more than the alcohol.

“Ngh,” he said, which Aziraphale took as a sign that he did.

The angel took a sip, then passed the bottle back again. Crowley held it loosely in the hand of the arm that was slung over the back of the bench, studying the label in a manner that suggested he wasn’t seeing the words there at all.

“We did a terrible job at all that, didn’t we, angel?”

Aziraphale was in no mood to argue. “Yes, we rather did.” He paused, then gave a small shrug. “It’s all worked out for the best, though. Just imagine how awful it might have been if we’d been at all competent.”

Crowley made a noise as if he was going to disagree, then gargled it in his mouth for a second before settling on: “Point taken.”

Aziraphale’s hands had retrieved the final prophecy and were dancing over it uncertainly, the angel staring into the middle distance, not looking at it. Crowley noticed.

“What’s that?”

He passed the note over. “It fell out of Agnes Nutter’s book.”

Crowley read the paper carefully. “For soon enough you will be playing with fire?” The demon frowned and flipped the scrap over, looking for any other details. “So this is the final one of Agnes’ prophecies?”

“As far as I know.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale could tell the demon was filing away the words to be analysed another time, but he wasn’t going to say any more for now. “And Adam? Human again?”

“As far as I can tell, yes.”

A rather boxy white delivery vehicle drove past their bench, seemingly out of nowhere, and pulled up just beyond them with a little screech of tires at the side of the empty village lane. A spark of recognition surfaced somewhere in Aziraphale’s mind, but his thoughts slid away from it just as quickly.

“Angel,” Crowley said, passing the wine back again. “What if the Almighty planned it like this all along? From the very Beginning?”

_Yes, that would rather make sense, wouldn’t it?_

“Could have,” he said flatly. “I wouldn’t put it past Her.” He drank, a little more than necessary, then looked up as a man in a uniform with a clipboard came over to them.

The human cleared his throat. “You got the, um...?”

“Ah!” Aziraphale said, tapping a little miracle into the cardboard box between them. “Didn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.”

The delivery man reached for the box, and opened it.

_Oh dear. I hope he doesn’t know what he’s looking for._

The human frowned, and looked up. “Oh, excuse me, gents. There’s, uh... there’s meant to be a sword in here.”

_Drat._

Crowley leaned back against the bench and raised his eyebrows at Aziraphale over his sunglasses.

_Yes, okay. Shush._

The angel ignored Crowley, making a show of being confused and then finding the sword that he’d ‘accidentally’ miracled behind him on the bench.

“Sorry. Sitting on it.”

He handed it over, a little reluctantly. _It’s for the best. You know it is._ That didn’t much help the confusing conflict of emotions the weapon brought up in him, though.

“Good thing you were here, really,” the delivery man said.

Aziraphale brightened a little. “How nice to have someone who recognises our part in saving the –”

“I need someone to sign for it.”

Crowley looked at the angel, his face blank, but Aziraphale knew him well enough to spot the creases around the sunglasses that told him the demon’s eyes were glinting demonically at the misunderstanding.

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale said, and took the proffered clipboard and pen, glancing at Crowley again as he did so.

“Do you believe in life after death?” the delivery man asked.

The angel handed back the tools of the human’s trade. “I suppose I must do.”

The delivery man suddenly seemed to have some sort of inkling as to who he was talking to, and laughed. “Yeah.” He checked the signature, but his eyes skimmed over the symbol, taking in only that it was there, not what it said. The angel doubted he would be able to read it anyway. “If I was to tell my wife what happened to me today,” he continued. “she wouldn’t believe me. And I wouldn’t blame her.”

Aziraphale sat down on the bench again, and the delivery man hefted the box away, leaving a space between the two celestials. The human vanished in the direction of the van, and the pair of them thought no more of him.

The angel looked over at the demon. Crowley was a box-width away from him, a vast chasm of empty bench, and no good reason for it. Aziraphale considered for an instant what his friend’s reaction might be if he scooted nearer when he next took the wine bottle, but they were both saved from the angel acting on that terrible impulse by the arrival of the bus further up the road.

Aziraphale pointed it out, then frowned. “It says ‘Oxford’ on the front.”

“Yeah, but it’ll drive to London anyway. It just won’t know why.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he said what came next. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was because he’d forgotten. Or perhaps, somewhere, however subconsciously, it was because he wanted to be asked back.

“I suppose I should get it to drop me off at the bookshop.”

Crowley turned to look at him, expression tight, and paused. “It burned down,” he said gently. “Remember?”

_Oh._

_My books. Crowley’s sofa. Long nights together, with deep discussion and a good vintage. All gone._

“You could stay at my place, if you like.”

The heart beating in Aziraphale’s corporation suddenly sped up. He looked at Crowley, and for a moment saw possibility – a companionable night on a Hell-grey settee, getting drunk just as they always did, and then just not leaving, never leaving, because what else was there to go back to?

_Stay at my place._ What did that mean? What were the parameters of that? Stay the night? Stay the week? Stay until you rebuild, however long that takes? Stay... forever?

All at once, the momentary spark of hope and joy was crushed by a lifetime of drilled-in negatives.

“I don’t think that my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do.”

Aziraphale looked at him. The demon’s face was kind, his voice gentle. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t being mean or harsh. He was just stating the facts – and offering soft hope.

“We’re on our own side,” Crowley finished.

There it was. So simple. _We’re on our own side._

Aziraphale looked away. _Too much, too... much._

The thing that Aziraphale hadn’t even dared to wish for. The thing he had finally admitted to considering _real_ in the same breath as breaking it off for good. The thing he never thought he would have a chance to get back.

It existed. It was true. They had done it.

_Our own side._

The bus drew up in front of them, and Crowley stood, moved to walk around the front of the vehicle. Aziraphale watched him go for a second, the echo of some old memory filtering through the haze of his mind.

_He walked into a church for you. He redirected a bomb. He burnt his feet, and he saved the books._

_He saved the world for you. He stopped time because you threatened to never speak to him again. He rebelled against Heaven all over again, and Hell too, for you._

_Our own side._

The mantra that had rebounded near-constantly through his head for almost eight decades was pushed aside. _It doesn’t matter anymore. He could know, if I wanted. If I dare tell him._

_We don’t need to hide anymore. We can just... be. Together, in the bookshop, in the park, in art galleries and museums and at musicals and plays and at the pictures and... Everything. We can do everything, now, together, without needing to hide._

_Our own side._

Aziraphale felt almost as he had in 1941. Set suddenly adrift, re-evaluating everything, uncertain and yet completely sure, lost and yet centred, terrified yet safe, and wanting, wanting, wanting.

Except this time, he was going to do something about it.

He stood, and followed the demon around the bus and inside, to the empty seats on the ground floor. Crowley sat down by the window, as he always did.

Aziraphale did not sit in front of him. Or behind him. Or away from him, where it might be thought that they didn’t know one another. He sat next to him, close and familiar.

And as he did so, he reached out. And clasped the demon’s hand.

Crowley froze for a moment as the bus drove away, but Aziraphale didn’t let up his soft act of bravery. _Let go, if you want to. I won’t hate you for it. But please, if you want to, I’d like to do this. I think I need it right now._

Neither of them spoke. But a moment later, Crowley adjusted his grip, gently curling his long fingers around the angel’s own. _Yes,_ that meant. _Yes, you can. Yes, I’d like to, too. Yes, I think I might need it too._

The journey was a long one: a little under two hours, even with the celestial influence keeping the roads clear and the bus at a steady speed. They only stopped once along the way – at Oxford, where the rest of the humans got out – and then only they and the driver remained.

“What now?” Aziraphale breathed as the bus drove off again, their own private bubble in the darkness of night on the roads.

Crowley swallowed. “Whatever you want, angel. Whatever you think.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a second, not daring to look at his companion. _It’s up to me._

He knew that Heaven and Hell were angry with them both. They’d want to interrogate them, put them on trial, even. Gabriel would drag Aziraphale before all the archangels (and Sandalphon, that slimy thug was bound to be there too), and make him explain himself. Make him say why he thought the Earth was worth saving, why he thought it was worth it to disrupt the Great Plan. And they wouldn’t understand, even if they bothered to listen. They wouldn’t get it, and that meant they might punish him.

The best he could hope for, really, was exile to Earth, but that was unlikely. It would benefit everyone, yes, but they’d want something that actively hurt Aziraphale, too. Would they be bothered to watch him if they locked him up somewhere in Heaven, or sentenced him to an eternity of some sort of menial job? Probably not – and even if they did, Aziraphale could break out, make his own way back to Earth. He’d done it before, after all. _Today._ Gosh, that seemed like a while ago.

The clasped hands between the two of them felt like an anchor, a way for Aziraphale to focus his thoughts and root him to the Earth, a way to keep Crowley close as long as the demon would let him. They also served as a diversion from his worries for himself. _What about Crowley?_

They’d punish him more severely, of course. That was Hell’s way, that was why Aziraphale had lived so much of the Arrangement in terror. _They’d destroy you._ And now they actually might.

Aziraphale didn’t have to think too hard to figure out how they’d do it. Holy water was the only way to truly obliterate a demon, and right now Heaven and Hell were closely enough aligned that they would probably be more than happy to have a truce for the sake of the damned – well, blessed – substance changing hands.

He didn’t want to think about it. He’d do anything to never have to think about it again – already memories of Soho in the sixties, of fear and loss and all the awful imaginings of what might happen, were flooding back to him, and he shook his head slightly to banish them. _No._ He wouldn’t let them hurt him. He’d do anything to make sure that didn’t happen.

“I think we’ll be safe for the night, at least. They’ll have to stand down the armies, regroup, figure out what to do next. They may even set up talks with each other, and that will take some time. I should think we won’t hear from them at least until tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, giving Aziraphale’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I think you’re right, angel. For tonight, at least, it’ll be okay.”

_For tonight, at least, it’ll be just us._

They spent the rest of the journey in companionable silence. The bus cruised quietly through the streets of London, and paused to drop them off at the foot of a tall block of flats in Mayfair.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and stood, releasing the demon’s fingers as he did so. For an instant, Crowley hung on, as if refusing to let the angel’s hand go. Then he relinquished his grip, and as their skin lost contact, Aziraphale regretted ending the connection at all. But he couldn’t very well offer it back again.

The street was dark and wholly empty as the bus left them behind, and Crowley let them into the building, leading the way to a small silver lift door and punching the button for a thematically-appropriate floor number in the early teens.

Aziraphale said nothing as the doors to the small box shut them in, another marvel of human engineering carrying them upwards. Crowley’s mouth was a tight line, anxiety evident in the set of his angular shoulders.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“Mmm, yeah, course, angel.” Forced nonchalance. Oh, Crowley.

Aziraphale hadn’t been here before, was the thing. The angel had no idea what to expect from the flat, and clearly the demon was nervous about showing it to him – but maybe that was more due to the prospect of the two of them sharing it together until Heaven and Hell finally tore them apart, rather than any fear of judgement over Crowley’s interior decorating choices.

The lift opened, and the demon led the way down a short grey corridor to a flat wall with a plain door in it, the only thing of interest a large round doorbell shaped like a snake. Aziraphale smiled, but didn’t pass comment.

Crowley reached to open the door, then froze.

“Uhh...” he said, a pained look on his face. “I, err, wasn’t planning on coming back here. It’s a bit of a mess.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, frowning. _A mess?_ Had he not _seen_ the bookshop? Had they not been friends for _six thousand_ years? What did a little mess matter?

“Yeah, ah...” The demon groaned and rubbed a hand over his face and then up through his hair. “I, uh, had to use your gift. On Ligur.”

_Oh. That kind of mess._

A million different things to say crowded into Aziraphale’s mind.

_Holy fuck, you could have died, are you okay?_

_Why the Hell would you do something like that? I could have lost you! (Again.)_

_Holy shit, I didn’t know that had happened, I’m so sorry._

_For Heaven’s sake, why didn’t you tell me before?_ [22]

Along with all of it came a realisation, soft and slow.

_Insurance. This is what he meant._

Crowley had killed a fellow demon – not just discorporated, but obliterated entirely – in order to stave off Hell’s anger with him. _He destroyed one of them rather than conform. That’s what he wanted it for, all that time ago. He’s been planning for this for centuries._

All of this happened in the space of only a moment, and Crowley was still not looking at him, face to the door, preparing to wince when Aziraphale’s inevitable angry reaction came.

The angel took a breath.

_Later. I’ll shout at him for it later._

“Where is it?” he asked instead.

“Uh, study.”

“Near this door?”

“No, further into the flat.”

“Right then.” Calm, business-like, sensible. “Open up. You can go inside, but you are _not_ allowed anywhere near where there might be spillage or splashes. I’ll clean it up.”

Crowley shot him a look that was both surprised and grateful, and Aziraphale glared back at him to let him know he wasn’t off the hook yet. The demon nodded, accepting his fate, and opened the door to the flat.

The place was... grey. Aziraphale had been inside Crowley’s residences before – a fair number of them over the years – but this was his fist time in this particular abode. And that was the first thing that struck him. How grey and cold and concrete it all was. _Minimalist._

It wasn’t the sort of place Aziraphale felt comfortable in. Nothing here explicitly reminded him of Heaven, but it was the same feeling – emptiness, a watchful expanse, the sense that it wasn’t a place to settle into. He had the strong urge to miracle a large, soft armchair into existence, just to liven the place up a bit, but he didn’t want to seem rude.

Crowley silently slunk through the halls of his own home and pointed Aziraphale towards the study. He didn’t approach the half-open door, and instead jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.

“Uh, I’ll be in the kitchen. End of the corridor, that way,” he said, motioning in through the doorway and left with his hand. “Um... let me know if you need anything.”

Aziraphale nodded, and watched as Crowley skittered off back down the corridor, fingers jammed into his pockets and his shoulders raised.

_Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine._

_Now. To business._

He could smell what had happened even from here in the corridor, but it wasn’t until he moved nearer to the doorway that the full extent of the damage could be seen.

The remains of what looked like a half-melted, half-burned plastic bucket were twisted into a large clear puddle by the door. Splash marks covered the doorframe and surrounding floorspace, and Aziraphale could almost see it happening in his mind’s eye.

_“Crowley! Where are you?”_

_The door is pushed open. The bucket falls. The screams –_

Aziraphale shook himself. _Not now._

I didn’t take long to clear it up, in the end, but Aziraphale fixated on the details, making it take twice as long as it otherwise would. By the time he’d finished, not a molecule of holy water was left anywhere in the flat, including any residual droplets inside the flask that had been left open on the desk.

The note was gone. Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about that, and failed. _Did he read it?_

He paused for a moment, breathing deeply with his eyes shut, trying to forget about what he’d just been doing, trying to avoid the fears of what could have happened if Crowley hadn’t quite been careful enough.

_It’s okay. He’s fine. He’s just in the next room – in the kitchen, probably trying to find some wine or something. He’s okay. Just breathe._

Aziraphale opened his eyes, and decided to find something else to focus on.

He glanced around the study, taking everything in. Large TV – apt, he supposed, and also good for simple enjoyment. Crowley did like his television shows. Globe – interesting, but not a wholly strange piece of decoration. Throne – well, a little bit of ostentatiousness was to be expected, wasn’t it?

The only thing on the walls, other than the television, was a framed sketch of the Mona Lisa. It was inscribed at the bottom, and Aziraphale peered closer to see the words.

_To Antonio,_ it said, and the angel felt something tighten in his chest. _How long did you have that name before you told me? No, before it was told _to_ me without your consent. Why did you feel like you had to hide it?_

That appeared to be the only thing in the room of a personal or sentimental nature. Aziraphale glanced around the grey walls, floor, and ceiling – _even the ceiling!_ – again, and wondered how much this was all show. Hell must know where Crowley lived, after all – and if they came knocking, it would be good to have an appropriately unwelcoming, demonic living situation to show them.

But what if Crowley actually liked this kind of thing? The angel tried to count back through previous houses and rooms he’d been in, his memory rifling through images of undecorated walls and sparsely-furnished living areas, of plain colours and impersonal décor. Perhaps that was just his style. In which case, adding a tartan blanket or two would probably be seen as an insult.

There was an astronomy book on the desk, too, beside the now-empty tartan flask and a tape-recorder telephone answering machine. Aziraphale smiled fondly – no matter how much the demon protested, his oldest friend knew that he did occasionally like to read books. This one might be mainly filled with photography, but Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if there was a small bookshelf of poetry and Ian Fleming novels hidden somewhere in this flat.

Then the angel frowned down at the book. Its pages looked clean and new, freshly printed, but the edges of them were all stuck out at odd angles, like they hadn’t been bound in properly. Aziraphale lifted the cover, and was greeted with a glossy, full-colour depiction of Alpha Centuri.

_We could go off together._

The angel’s eyes flicked down to the page number. It was out of sync – shoved in even before the title page, as if the book had been gathered back together at random, in a rush, the top page just happening to be what was closest to the surface of whoever’s mind it was as they miracled the book into a rough stack of pages and out of the way.

Aziraphale let the book close and looked away, embarrassed at his own intrusion. His eyes coasted past the window towards the TV, and then skipped back a fraction, settling on a sculpture in a dark alcove that he hadn’t noticed before.

A sculpture that appeared oddly familiar. A sculpture of an eagle with spread wings.

Without even realising what he was doing, Aziraphale moved closer. The statue was tucked away, shadowed and almost unnoticed, but it was very firmly there.  
He stepped right up to it. Now that he was nearer, he could see that it wasn’t just the bird – the whole thing was set just below chest height and angled, like a stand of some kind, for a book or papers, like the kind of thing you find in...

In a church.

The realisation hit him like a gut-punch, the air forced out of his lungs.

_Little demonic miracle of my own._

_He saved the books. He killed the Nazis. And this was left behind, too..._

There it was, plain as day. The simple eagle lectern that had survived the bombing of a London church in 1941.

_I took it. Souvenir..._

Aziraphale stumbled backwards, bumping up against the ornately-carved desk. There was something solid in his throat, and his vision was suddenly blurry.

_Crowley loves me._

The phrase was shattered, the mantra mixed and twisted in his head, the words mashed together to create something almost the same, almost entirely different.

_Crowley is..._

_No. Stop. You don’t know that. Don’t even hope. Don’t risk it. It hurts._

The angel tore his eyes away from the sculpture and grasped around for something solid. _The throne._ Yes, the throne. He sat on it, limbs shaking, and leaned right the way forwards to rest his forehead on the cool marble surface of the desk.

_A deep, wonderful feeling of being loved._

Aziraphale’s breaths were coming shallow and fast. His hands balled to fists on the arms of the throne, clinging on for dear life as he worked his way through the panic.

_Breathe, you idiot, breathe._

There was a statue, yes, that had been in the church. _But you knew what that night meant to you. Why wouldn’t it mean something for him, too?_ There was a book, as well, of places to run away to – places Crowley had helped create, places the demon _hadn’t_ run away to when he had the chance, because Aziraphale wasn’t with him. _He told you that already. Just breathe._ And there was a sketch behind him, with a name on it that Crowley had been nervous about, because he cared what Aziraphale thought. _You know why that’s important to him. Stop overreacting. Calm down._

It took him several minutes, but eventually the hyperventilating stopped, and then the angel was able to slow his heart rate to somewhere close to normal, and try to think about something else for a while.

_I should get out of here. Head towards the kitchen. Find Crowley. Forget about all this._

It felt intrusive, that was the problem. It felt like he’d just uncovered something personal, sacred, not for anyone’s eyes but the demon’s own, and doing so without Crowley knowing felt _wrong_, regardless of whether it was intentional or not. He didn’t want to think about it.

So he stood, shakily, wiped his face dry, and turned his back to the eagle, moving in the direction Crowley had pointed when mentioning where he’d be.

There was a doorway there, but an odd one – a slab of grey concrete that was tilted at an angle, slightly away from the wall at one side, slightly into it at the other. The angel pushed at the edge that jutted towards him with a finger, and watched as the section of wall span open to reveal the room beyond.

_Oh. Oh, Crowley._

Aziraphale stepped through the now-open archway and found himself in a garden. There were plants everywhere, growing against every wall in the room, their leaves wide and verdant and spotless, their branches tall and resolutely refusing to bend towards the moonlight filtering through the windows. It was gorgeously green and wonderfully peaceful, and Aziraphale stood for a moment in awe. _Your own little Eden._

Crowley had often kept plants, in some form or another, during his time on Earth. Tulips on the windowsill. A poinsettia on the table in winter. An orchid in the kitchen. Flowers were common, but it was also the leaves, the greenery he seemed to like the most. Ferns, figs, spider plants, yucca, peperomia, even the occasional succulent. There had been an aloe vera in the corner of a room Crowley had been renting once – that had been London too, come to think of it, but centuries ago. And there had been a peace lily, once, that had materialised in Aziraphale’s own room after an argument.

But this was different. This wasn’t just an occasional flash of greenery to brighten up an empty room, this was a whole oasis. _Have you always had this? Hidden away somewhere, just for you? Am I trespassing here, too?_

No. Crowley had pointed him this way – he knew what Aziraphale would have to see to find him again. Maybe that was the point. The world had ended, after all – and it likely would again, for them, very soon. Heaven and Hell would come after them, personally, and there would be no more time to tell secrets or ask questions or know everything there was to know. So why not get it all out of the way now?

_Our own side._

Aziraphale took a deep breath, then stepped further into the room. He inhaled the soft smell of growing, eyes fluttered shut, and then he wandered among plants, taking in their beautiful, verdant leaves, reaching out to feel their softness. _Oh, Crowley. I can see why you love them._

He said as much to the plants, quietly, in case Crowley was listening at the door. Aziraphale could have sworn some of the leaves moved in response to his words, but he decided he must have imagined it. Plants couldn’t understand _words_. He was pretty sure he would have noticed if that were the case.

Just being in the plant room seemed to have a calming effect, and Aziraphale was able to put a mental door in front of the eagle lectern in his mind. _Forget about it. There’s other things that need sorting out first._

He pulled himself upright and straightened his bow tie, brushing non-existent dust from his coat and trousers. _Right, onwards. To the kitchen._

Out the other side of the plant room was another grey corridor, and Aziraphale followed it towards where Crowley had pointed. At the end there was another sculpture, one the angel couldn’t quite fathom out until he was up close. It looked like...

Aziraphale blinked. It was two celestials, presumably an angel and a demon, and they were arched over one another, close and in motion, wings flared out around them. The proportions were off, he noted – their wings should be bigger – and the faces weren’t quite right, but it was obvious what they were supposed to be. _Who_ they were supposed to be.

_Wrestling. Definitely wrestling. The eternal struggle of Heaven versus Hell. Obviously. What else could it be?_

Aziraphale refused to answer his own question, electing to ignore any implications posed by the statue, and shutting it firmly behind another mental door. There was no way it was anything other than a message to Hell about Crowley’s intent to subdue to Heavenly enemy. That was all. [23]

To the left of the statue was a door that was half-open, and this, the angel presumed, was the kitchen. He pushed it wider, and walked in.

Crowley was at the counter, his back to Aziraphale, busying himself with a coffee-maker and a mug. At first glance, the kitchen was much the same as the rest of the flat, all grey walls and blank spaces and cool, dark emptiness. Here there was more furniture, at least – a towering black fridge, an oven and hob set into the grey granite work surface, an assortment of colour-coordinated grey-scale technical cookery gadgets that Aziraphale would bet had never been used, and little of any sentimental value.

There was a table set against one wall, room enough only for one person to eat a meal on or two to share drinks at. There were stools tucked under it, and it was currently occupied by a kind of small potted plant Aziraphale didn’t know the name of.

As the angel advanced into the room, though, he realised there was more space beyond the kitchen, behind where the door had blocked his view. The room opened out into a living space, where a sharp black faux-leather sofa that looked as solid as a rock was pointed at another large flat screen TV on the wall, a low coffee table in front of it.

None of that, though, was what made Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat. It was what was beside the sofa that did it. The one part of the room – Hell, the entire flat – that looked like it didn’t belong, nestled comfortably in a corner like it had been there forever.

The angel stepped towards it, light-headed. _Dream-like_, he thought distantly. _This must be what they mean. Like walking in a dream._

A small, sudden noise behind him let him know that Crowley had finally noticed his appearance, but the angel didn’t turn around. He was too busy staring, his chest feeling so full it was fit to burst.

“I, ugh, nghh... wanted to make you... err, feel at home,” Crowley said quietly from behind him.

Aziraphale could only nod, tears threatening to spill.

Before him was an armchair, soft-looking and plump. It had large cushions on it, and a thick blanket draped over the back, and a little table next to it with a book and a mug of hot cocoa at the ready. And it was completely and entirely made of Aziraphale’s own tartan.

“Angel?” Crowley said uncertainly.

Aziraphale couldn’t look at him. _The bookshop’s gone. This is all I have now. A corner in the grey flat of my best friend, and he doesn’t even know how long I’ve been lying to him. And he’s so _kind_. So completely, wonderfully thoughtful, and I don’t deserve any of this in the slightest, and oh, Lord, I love him so much._

He couldn’t hold it back anymore. His face crumpled, and he raised his hands to hide behind.

“Ngk.”

A second later and Crowley was there, close, oh so close, and yet not daring to come nearer.

“Did I...? I’m sorry, angel, I thought...”

“No,” Aziraphale managed, shaking himself and attempting to vanish as much of his crying as possible, but still the tears came. “No, this is wonderful, Crowley, truly. I’m sorry, I just... It’s all so much, I just...”

He couldn’t finish. But he didn’t need to. A gentle hand cupped his elbow and guided him firmly over to the newly-miracled haven, strong hands on his shoulders pushing him down into the soft safety of the chair.

“Here,” Crowley’s voice said, and a warm mug was pressed into his hands. “Drink this. It’ll calm you down.”

Aziraphale gave a watery smile in the direction of the pair of dark glasses he could barely see through the tears that clouded his vision, and then dropped his gaze to the cocoa. Something simple to focus on. Simple, and hot, and sweet. Calming. Food.

“Thank you,” he told the mug.

“It’s nothing, angel.”

Crowley went back to busying himself at the kitchen counter, doing not much of anything, by the sounds of it, but keeping out of the way until Aziraphale could breathe and see and think normally again. He drank most of the cocoa – perfectly made, of course, and not a hint of miracle about it – and then he cleared his throat in such a way that Crowley knew it was okay to come back now.

The demon came into the sitting room and sprawled himself over the uncomfortable-looking sofa, a mug of tea in one hand.

“So, uh. Did the clean-up go okay?”

Aziraphale felt his mouth twitch slightly at the forced casualness in the demon’s tone.

“Yes, it did. All gone, now. And I’m not in any state to yell at you about it for the moment, but if we make it out of here in one piece, then you’ve got it coming.”

One corner of Crowley’s mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Well, that’s some good motivation not to die, then.”

Aziraphale nodded gravely, and took another sip of his hot drink.

There was silence for a moment, as each of the celestials lost themselves in their own minds. So much had happened in the last few days that still needed processing, and Aziraphale was feeling shaky with the magnitude of it all. The cocoa helped, though. He’d soon finished the mug.

“I’m... I’m sorry, angel. About everything.”

Aziraphale looked up, and found a pair of gorgeous bright yellow eyes staring back at him. His corporation’s heart skipped a beat, and it took him a second to register what Crowley had said.

“What for?”

“You know... The bookshop. Heaven and Hell finding us out. You being... well, ‘kicked out’, I suppose. I know they meant a lot to you. I’m sorry it had to end like it did.”

“None of that’s your fault, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, as softly as he could. “I should be the one apologising to you. I should have listened to you. I should have realised sooner that they weren’t ever going to help the humans, that they only cared about winning.” He sighed, and shut his eyes for a second. “I should have trusted you better. And I’m very sorry for that.”

“You don’t need to apologise either. You know that, right?”

Aziraphale looked up, more prepared for the intensity of that beautiful gaze now, but his heart still stuttered at the sight. He frowned, not understanding Crowley’s point.

“You were just trying to do what you thought was right,” the demon explained. “You didn’t do anything _wrong_, as such, you were just... trying every option. And as soon as you realised... You came back to me. You phoned me up, and then you came to find me even without a body, and then we found each other at the airbase. You were always fighting to save them, the whole time, even when I’d given up.”

_He gave up because he thought you were gone. He didn’t care anymore, because he cares about you so much. He couldn’t stand it._

“I still hurt you, though.” Aziraphale’s voice was small, but he forced the words out anyway. “Doesn’t matter what I way trying to do, the outcome still hurt you. So I’m still sorry for that.”

Crowley nodded once. “Okay, well. I forgive you.”

Aziraphale smiled. “And I forgive you, even though there’s really nothing to forgive.”

The demon peered into his mug, then downed the remainder of the tea. He levered himself up off the sofa in one fluid motion, and moved back into the kitchen part of the room. “Fancy something a little stronger?” he asked over his shoulder.

“What do you have?”

Crowley returned with a couple of wine glasses and two ancient-looking bottles of red. Aziraphale smiled and wiggled appreciatively, and put the mug down in favour of the alcohol.

“So...” the demon asked, as soon as they had both filled their glasses and settled back to while away the night in a drunken stupor. “What exactly happened for you to get discorporated in the first place? Who got to you?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Well, technically speaking, it was Sergeant Shadwell.”

“What?” Crowley said, a shocked grin spreading over his face. “Oh, this I have to hear!”

They went over the events of the day together – first Aziraphale, detailing his conversation with the Metatron (“Bastards, the lot of them,” Crowley growled), his encounter with the Witchfinder, his subsequent discorporation (“That must have been when the bookshop caught fire”), his less-than-warm welcome in Heaven, and then his daring escape back to Earth (“And you just... did that? Without knowing what would happen?” “Well, I knew demons could do it, and the two of us aren’t all that unalike, so why not? And it brought me straight to you...”). Then Crowley filled in the gaps, explaining what had happened with Ligur and the holy water, and Hastur chasing him through the telephone. Aziraphale swallowed any terrified anger he may have felt, and listened enraptured through the whole thing.

By the time each of their accounts had finished, they had made their way through several more of the bottles of red wine than had been presented initially. And once the excitement of hearing about each other’s bold defiance of their respective sides had faded, they were left with the grim reality of what that would mean for them now.

“Hastur’ll bloody string me up for Ligur,” Crowley said sullenly. “W’n’t be surprised ‘f he convinced that lot Upstairs to give ’im some holy water, just so he could finish me off the same way.”

Aziraphale recoiled at the thought. “No,” he said firmly. “No he won’t. Won’t let him. You’ll see, they’ll have to go through me first.”

Crowley sat up straighter for a second, like he’d thought of something. His back began to sink into a curve, but then he did it again. Aziraphale watched, confused but strangely intrigued by this little routine.

“Nah, that – No, tha’s not... Could it, though?”

The demon was talking to himself, and Aziraphale tilted his head to one side, allowing himself to stare.

“What’s that you’ve got there, my dear?”

“It’s the...” Crowley wiggled his fingers in the air. “Beginnings of an idea, or summat. I’m... ’M gonna sober up. See if I can make it make more sense.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, but made no move to follow when Crowley refilled a good number of the wine bottles around them both. _Don’t want to. Not yet. Can’t just look at him when I’m sober, can I? Just a bit longer._

The demon made a face, one that Aziraphale knew well from his own experience after nights like these. He remembered the first time he’d seen Crowley make it. In a rented room, in Rome. It had been late, a long night after a long afternoon and evening eating at least one of everything Petronius served in his restaurant.

_“You think I want to be a demon?”_

Aziraphale shook himself out of the memory. That had been before he knew better, before he realised that Crowley was still the same person, fundamentally, as the angel he’d known in Heaven. That was a long time ago.

“Angel...”

Aziraphale tilted his head to the other side. Crowley had gone suddenly still and wide-eyed. _Are you okay, my dear?_

“Angel – Aziraphale, sober up.”

“Wh–” he began to whine, but Crowley shot him a fiery look that made him pay attention.

“The prophecy, Aziraphale. Sober up, now.”

The angel did so, grudgingly, and then straightened himself out from the seat of the armchair.

“Right. What is it? What have you thought of?”

“Read it again. Word for word.”

Aziraphale did so, fishing the scrap of paper out from his waistcoat pocket. “When all is said and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire.”

“Fire...” Crowley breathed, eyes glassy. “Yes. I think I’ve got it, angel. But you’re not going to like it.”

The demon explained, gently, carefully, and Aziraphale didn’t want to believe it. But he did, with a slow-dawning horror. _They want us both out of their way for good. And if Hell’s destroying Crowley with Heavenly holy water, why wouldn’t they swap it for some hellfire?_

“But how would that even work?” he asked, once Crowley had finished. “Aren’t our corporations tailored to us?”

“Are they?” the demon responded, eyebrows raised. “We aren’t all that different. They take on the forms we mould them into, in some way. Why wouldn’t it work if we were to swap them?”

“Change them around us, though? Wouldn’t that risk discorporation again? I mean...” _Probably explode. That’s what he’d said before – but he didn’t really know for sure. And they wouldn’t both be in the same body at once, they’d be swapping it a piece at a time..._

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t have even thought it was possible. Except...” Crowley gestured to the piece of paper still resting in Aziraphale’s hand. “Agnes hasn’t been wrong yet. And I don’t know how else to make that prophecy make sense.”

The angel considered this. He raised his eyes to meet the demon’s uncovered yellow ones.

“Yes,” he said, a finality in the words. “Let’s do it.”

The mechanics of the whole thing took a little while to work out, but between the two of them, eventually they had the details sorted. They’d have to loosen their grip on their corporations first, allow them to be a little fluid around themselves. It would be safest done in a bubble where no one would interrupt them – Crowley could arrange that, stop time like he had done in the Bastille. It would be difficult, but if Agnes was right and it was possible, then they’d be able to do it.

“Right then,” Aziraphale said, standing almost chest-to-chest with Crowley.

“You ready, angel?” The demon offered his hand.

“Yes, my dear.” He clasped it.

The air stilled as time stopped. Aziraphale softened the edges of himself, relaxing his grasp on his corporation. He felt a gentle pressure in roughly the area of his palm, and responded in kind. _This is you. Here is me. Let us swap: you are mine, I am yours._

The sensation itself was near-indescribable. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s essence just beyond the bounds of his own, feeding his corporation through their connection, bit by bit, and the angel was doing the same in reverse, offering his own body through their palms, piece by piece. It was intense, all-encompassing, powerful. It blocked out all Aziraphale’s human-level senses, as the parts of his corporation that knew how to do those things were changed over, disrupted and dissolved, swapped and re-solidifying somewhere else.

A moment later, when time restarted, to anyone watching it would have appeared that Crowley and Aziraphale had swapped places. To each other, they were staring into the eyes of their own corporations.

_Woah._

It had worked. They were still alive. They were alive and in one piece and ready. Ready to go up against Heaven and Hell for each other, to save each other from utter obliteration at the hands of those who should have been their families, to defy their Head Offices once again for the sake of continuing their lives together on Earth.

“We should swap back again,” one said through the other’s mouth. “Make sure we know how it works well enough that there won’t be any problems.”

They did so, their edges dissolving and reforming again, their corporations exchanging around them, the substance of themselves so close between their palms that if breathing were necessary, it would have been impossible. It went faster, the second time, the movement more sure and practiced.

Aziraphale gasped in a breath as he regained control of his own lungs again, and looked up at the demon’s nervous eyes.

“You okay, angel?”

He nodded breathlessly. “Yes, my dear.”

_It worked._

As if he needed any more proof that angels and demons were one and the same. [24]

There wasn’t much of the night left, Crowley’s fancy watch telling them they only had a couple of hours or so until sunrise. The demon slung himself on the sofa again, and Aziraphale sat carefully down in his newly-miracled armchair, and together they made their plan.

Then, just as the light of dawn glimmered over the London horizon, Aziraphale’s corporation left the Mayfair flat, and began the long, quiet walk back to Soho.

There was no jolt at any point along the way – either during the drunken hours of night, or the careful time spent planning, or the meandering minutes between the flat and the bookshop – to suggest a change of any sort had taken place. But it had done, at some point. It wasn’t noticeable until he was almost there, until he realised he should be able to smell the ash by now, but once the difference had made itself known, it was obvious. Adam had fixed things. Not everything, presumably, but lots of things. And one of those things was the bookshop.

The bell jingled as he stepped through the door, just as it always had. Blue eyes, clear and calm as a spring day on Primrose Hill, flicked over the shelves with careful precision, noting every tiny difference, every new addition with the accuracy of a being who had made this place their home for the past couple of hundred years.

He stayed there for a couple of hours, as they’d planned, pottering around with the tea and checking whether or not the young Antichrist had remembered to restock the back room’s wine and biscuit supplies, and then set out again for St James’ Park.

That walk was just as solitary and thoughtful as the first, but this time the celestial was surrounded by the sights and sounds and smells of a city waking up in a new era of humanity. Cars honked, children shouted, dogs barked, food was cooked and sold and eaten, and all around him, life was being lived – with only the shadow of a memory of the events of the day before.

They met back up in the park, by the water, where they always did. A traditional-looking ice cream cart was set up there for the bright summer day, and the pair of them hovered by it.

“How’s the car?”

“Not a scratch on it.” A slight pause. “How’s the bookshop?”

“Not a smudge. Not a book burned. Everything back just the way it was.”

The waistcoated celestial was handed an ice cream by his friend that almost perfectly matched his corporation’s colour scheme. He took it, and looked around.

Neither of them had heard from their respective sides. No point dropping their guard, of course – they would turn up, eventually, it was just a matter of when.

“Do you understand what happened yesterday?”

He must be referring to the suddenly-restored bookshop and Bentley, the decidedly not-on-fire M25, the newspapers that carried only boring political headlines rather than the Kraken-coverage that might be expected.

“Well, I understand some of it. But some of it... Well, it’s just a bit too...”

The sentence was finished by someone who was neither Aziraphale nor Crowley. Someone in a black cloak, holding a rather large scythe, who appeared to have manifested at just that moment, in amongst a flock of pigeons.

Then there were hands on shoulders and a tight loop of cloth across his mouth and rope tightening on his wrists and the force of angelic strength all around him. He tried to shout, tried to motion with his eyeline towards the other group of threatening-looking celestials who were masquerading as humans, but it wasn’t enough. Crowley’s corporation lurched towards Aziraphale’s bound one, and then a demon with a crowbar stepped out and swung it, and the last thing he saw as he was carted off to Heaven was his best friend in all of creation flat on the ground, passing out at the hands of a group of bloodthirsty demons.

***

Aziraphale’s body was in Heaven, and Crowley looked around out of it, taking in the décor and figuring out exactly what would happen here.

_Nice view. Bit extravagant, but at least they’re appreciating humanity for a change. Bit boring and plain otherwise, though. I can see why Aziraphale prefers the shop to be cosy._

Uriel and Sandalphon had been the ones doing the dirty work, along with several angels Aziraphale hadn’t told him the names of – perhaps he didn’t know them himself. The others had gone now, just the archangel and acting-archangel remaining. Michael was nowhere to be seen – which probably meant she was... elsewhere.

Now they were just waiting for Prime Dickhead to deign to arrive. Crowley tested the strength of the rope tying him to the chair, and wasn’t surprised to find it unbreakable. Not that Aziraphale would try to escape anyway.

“Ah,” said a voice behind him, and Crowley forced himself not to react. “Aziraphale.”

A hand clapped down onto his shoulder, and then Gabriel moved into view. “So glad you could join us.” The archangel squeezed a little tighter than necessary, then went to join his little committee.

Crowley made a small smile manifest itself on Aziraphale’s face. “You could have just sent a message. I mean, a kidnapping in broad daylight.” _Not exactly stylish._

“Call it what it was: an extraordinary rendition.” The demon would have made a face at that, but the angel wouldn’t have, so Aziraphale’s face remained (mostly) neutral.

“Now, have we heard from our new associate?” Gabriel asked, one hand raised. For the first time, Crowley saw the flicker of something there, something not wholly... perfect. Gabriel’s hair was just ever so slightly out of its usual pristine shape, his eyes just a little too wide, his question just a tiny bit sharp. _He’s... stressed. Well. That’s new._

“He’s on his way,” Uriel said, and Gabriel repeated the words triumphantly.

“I think you’re going to like this,” Head Wanker said. “I really do.” He walked towards the bound ‘angel’, leaning down intimidatingly. “And I bet you didn’t see this one coming.”

Crowley wanted to punch him. If he’d been himself, he would have spat in the guy’s face. Because – infuriatingly, horrifyingly, disturbingly – he knew that Gabriel was right. Aziraphale hadn’t seen this one coming – wouldn’t have known what he was going into at all – until Crowley spelled it out to him. Even after everything, even knowing that Heaven just didn’t care about humanity and Earth and everything, that beautiful, hopeful, idiotic optimist of an angel had never thought they would dare to do something as final as this. He had realised about the holy water, had known that Hell would want to destroy Crowley, but it had never even occurred to Aziraphale that Heaven might want to do the same to him.

After a few moments, another voice sounded from behind Aziraphale’s corporation – one that Crowley recognised. “You don’t get this view down in the basement,” Eric said, and the demon had to force himself not to show any hint that he knew who this was.

He sat in silence as the hearth was arranged in the centre of the room, as the bag of hellfire was thrown into it, as the fiery tornado licked upwards into the open space of Heaven.

Crowley had to admit, this was impressive. The amount of trust and cooperation Heaven and Hell were showing here was truly exemplary. They’d probably all get on really well, if they gave each other the chance.

But the method of execution was here, and that meant only one thing. The sentence had already been decided. _No trial, then._

Crowley couldn’t remember much from Before, but he was pretty sure there hadn’t been a trial last time, either. _Angels and their certainty that they’re right._

No, the humans had invented trials themselves. Clever humans, coming up with non-miraculous solutions to problems like _lies_ and _conflicting stories_ and _mistakes_. That first time, lying hadn’t even been thought of yet. Or at least, Crowley was pretty sure most of them hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps one particular soon-to-no-longer-be-an-angel had lied, but the rest of them were being honest. Not telling the truth, necessarily, but not lying. There was a big difference, Crowley knew, between telling a lie and saying something false that you believed to be true. A very big difference.

Anyway, humans had come up with trials. And Hell had realised what lying was, and taking full advantage of it in their temptations. And then realised they could do it to each other too, so spent ages crafting a trial system – complete with a ridiculous amount of paperwork – in case anything big needed to be decided in an official way.

Heaven, it appeared, had gone through no such process.

“So, with one act of treason, you averted the war,” Gabriel said.

“Well, I think the greater good –” Crowley began with Aziraphale’s mouth, but Chief Fuckwad cut him off.

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel.”

_Ooh, this is actually getting rather fun. He’s all riled up, look._

“The greater good,” Gabriel continued, “was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all.”

Aziraphale’s eyes stared back at him, daring the archangel to say more. No more came.

Uriel stepped forward and pulled away the ropes around the demon’s wrists. “Up.”

Crowley did as ordered, shaking his arms to adjust the sleeves and rolling his wrists to make them more comfortable again. He pulled down the bottom of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and reached up to smooth the collar of his jacket and straighten his bow tie – playing the character, but also stalling a little for time.

“I don’t suppose I can... persuade you to reconsider?” he asked with a little smile, as he knew – he _knew_ – Aziraphale would have done. No answer came, and he let his face fall. “We’re meant to be the _good_ guys, for Heaven’s sake,” he said, allowing a little force into the words.

“Well, for _Heaven’s sake_,” Gabriel said, “we are meant to make examples out of traitors. So.” He gestured, invitingly, as if he was offering Aziraphale a drink or cupcake or something, rather than the agony of a fiery, torturous obliteration. “Into the flame.”

_And Aziraphale would have done it._ The archangels were sure of that, even Crowley was horrifyingly worried that that would have been the case. _They expect him to just walk in there. No force, no dragging, just walking in himself. It’s barbaric._

He pushed the thoughts away, not daring to let them show on his face. _He might not have done. He ran away from here before, after all. He jumped back to Earth, he possessed a human. He might have tried that again._ It wasn’t worth considering the likelihood of that possibility, or what would have happened afterwards. Just that it would never have to happen now was enough.

Crowley took a few steps forward, enough that the heat of the hellfire began to crackle at Aziraphale’s skin. Then he paused, attempted to look nervous, and took a deep breath. “Right. Well. Lovely knowing you all.” He smiled again. “May we meet on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.” Gabriel gave a wide forced grin, more of a grimace, really, and then dropped it instantly, staring at Aziraphale’s corporation with a look of complete disgust.

It took every ounce of self-control Crowley had not to throttle him right then and there. _How DARE you talk to him like that? You worthless, pathetic piece of scum. You horrific, revolting, power-mad, sadistic piece of shit. You –_

He glared at Gabriel, allowing his inner monologue to rage even as he held Aziraphale’s tongue, forced a small smile, flicked his gaze back and forth between the angels and the hellfire, and then stepped forward into the flames.

Nothing happened.

What the angels might have expected – screams, perhaps, or at the very least some repressed sounds of pain, alongside the ghastly image of a corporation melting and burning and twisting into nothingness – didn’t. What the demon in the flames might have expected – an uncomfortable heat all around him, worse than when he caused his own hellfire to materialise on his tongue or in the tips of his fingers, but still definitely bearable – also didn’t. If anything, it just felt a little warmer, the sensation of flames licking past his corporation without touching him an odd thing to behold. Crowley wondered vaguely if there was some celestial equivalent to adrenaline that was making this even easier than he’d expected. He supposed that was what happened when you defied death for your best friend.

Crowley revelled in the feel of it. The warmth, the gentle rush of immaterial motion across skin, the joy of what the angels’ reactions would be. He inhaled deeply, eyes closed, and sighed out loudly. He tilted his neck side to side, making loud cracking noises with Aziraphale’s spine, before opening his eyes and staring straight at Gabriel. Then he opened his mouth, and forced a thick stream of hellfire out of the tornado in the furnace, directed straight at the three horrified angels in front of him.

They scattered backwards in terror, clutching for each other as they did so. Crowley grinned widely with Aziraphale’s mouth.

“It may be worse than we thought.” _Understatement of the millennium, Gabriel. You have no idea what’s coming to you if you dare try to hurt him again._

It was all rather easy after that. They seemed to be in quite a hurry to get him out of there, and allowed him to walk out of Heaven free as a bird.

He went to the park, as planned – a different one to their usual, of course, just in case. There was a bench, and the demon dressed as an angel sat on it, and the angel dressed as a demon came to join him.

“All good?”

“Very much so.”

There was a pause as each of them sighed internally with relief.

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone now?”

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened.”

“Hmm.”

Crowley lounged on the bench in Aziraphale’s corporation, looking lazily around for anyone who might be spying on them. Aziraphale sat next to him, hands in his lap, looking far too prim and proper for the body he was wearing.

“Right, anyone looking?” the angel asked.

The demon focused for a second, stretching out his senses as far as they could reach, searching for any glimmer of celestial influence from either side. “Nobody,” he confirmed. He offered his hand. “Right. Swap back, then.”

Aziraphale took it, and Crowley froze time before reaching across the gap between their palms and swapping corporations with his angel piece by piece.

Aziraphale took back control of his own corporation and shook himself slightly, reaching to straighten out his clothes at once. _Well then. That wasn’t so bad._

“Tartan collar. Really?” Crowley asked.

“Tartan’s stylish!” Aziraphale said back in mock surprise, relaxing back into their familiar ways.

They sat on the bench a little while longer, each looking around for anyone they recognised, just in case, and talking together – speculating about the future, laughing together about the recent past, and deciding what to do for the present.

As they stood to leave, Aziraphale felt a weight drop from his shoulders. _We’ve done it. We’re free._

So he felt more than comfortable with suggesting the Ritz for lunch.

And that was where he let any last pretence drop. They’d held hands last night, after all. They’d spent half the day in each other’s bodies, risking their very existences for each other. So Aziraphale didn’t feel at all guilty for allowing himself to enjoy their meal together – for allowing himself to look across the table with fondness at his beloved demon, for allowing himself to drop ‘my dear’ into his words just a little more often than usual, for allowing himself proximity for an extended period of time.

Lunch turned into dinner, without any of the humans on staff even hinting that they might need that table. The champagne they had ordered kept coming, in quantities higher than would normally be expected for two humans dining together – not that anyone else would even think to pass comment. By the time night fell, they’d racked up a bill that would have made most humans wince, although there was no chance Jeff would notice when Crowley whisked the necessary funds out of his personal bank account to pay. Humans had a tendency not to notice things like that, which was all very helpful for this particular pair of celestials.

They left the Ritz in a euphoric daze, both retaining the warm feeling the champagne had given them, there being no Bentley to have to sober up for to drive home. Aziraphale hailed a cab, and they both ducked into it, sitting next to each other in the back. When they got to the bookshop, they both stumbled inside without comment; there was no need to hide anymore, no need to conceal pleasure with business.

Aziraphale went straight to the back room to find wine and glasses, and came back to find Crowley comfortably sprawled, as usual, on the sofa. One thing that was different – _already? But we’re barely even tipsy!_ – was the lack of sunglasses on the demon’s face. They were swinging lazily from the hand that was slung over the arm of the sofa, and for a second Aziraphale couldn’t help but pause and just look.

_You really do have the most gorgeous eyes, my dear._

He didn’t say it, though. No, one couldn’t just say that sort of thing, even to your best friend who you’ve been in love with for decades, if not centuries, if not millennia, even after you’ve just stopped the Apocalypse and tricked Heaven and Hell together. There needs to at least be some preamble to that sort of thing.

An unexpected realisation dawned, and Aziraphale suddenly felt a little ill. _I have to tell him about Before._

“’M I getting some of that, angel?”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands and realised he was still holding the bottle and wineglasses.

“Ah, yes.” He held out the hand with the glasses and let Crowley take one, and then shakily poured half the bottle in for the demon to drink. _At the very least, we can have one more drunken night together first._

The angel considered the opposite end of the sofa for a fraction of a second, then retreated to his usual chair and emptied the rest of the bottle into his own glass, right up to the brim.

“Looking to get drunk tonight, are we?” Crowley asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I dare say we’ve earned it, my dear.” Aziraphale sat back and tried to look as prim and proper as possible, before draining a fair chunk of the wine in his glass in one go, without much regard for taste.

Crowley, who had only taken a sip of his own wine, now raised both eyebrows. “You alright, angel?”

“Never better. Just tickety-boo.”

“You know I know that means you’re not okay, right?” Crowley said sceptically. “You don’t ever say that if you are.”

“No, ah, really, I’m fine,” Aziraphale lied. He sighed, attempting to replicate what he’d seen a Hamlet do on stage once.[25] “It’s all just... hitting me now. It’s... a lot to take in.”

Crowley looked at him for a moment longer, then shrugged and nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, it is. But we’ll get there. Together, yeah?”

Aziraphale paused and looked at the demon. He was being earnest and trying to hide it. The angel could see it there, small and wide-eyed, fear and hope and uncertainty all wrapped up in a neat little bundle, almost reflective of his own. A need for confirmation wrapped up in casualness.

“Yes,” he replied softly. “Together.”

_Oh Lord, I hope he still wants that after tonight._

He avoided the issue as long as possible, letting the conversation fall back into its old rhythms – humanity, art, music, literature, technology. For once, there wasn’t any news for them to deliver to each other, having spent most of the last decade (and especially the last week) at pretty much the same level of general human cultural awareness.

By the time night fell outside, the warm summer evening finally giving up the last of its daylight and plunging Soho into frenetic, street-lit darkness, both celestial beings were thoroughly sozzled. Crowley was going on about the demonic benefits of gluing cash to the pavement – _again_ – and lamenting the vast amount of work that had had to be redone in the past few years since they’d changed the shape of the pound coin. Aziraphale was only half listening, silently arguing with himself and attempting to summon the courage to say what needed to be said.

“...which makes sense to _them_, I’m sure, but now it’s a Hell of a lot harder to tempt people into counterfeiting money, because it’s just not worth the effort for them. Almost like they don’t _want_ demons getting people to screw up the currency.”

It was a good-natured sort of grumbling, and usually Aziraphale would have responded with something prim or teasing, depending on his mood. But today he was too distracted. And as the space left for him to fill grew wider, Crowley noticed.

A confused expression creased the demon’s forehead, and he looked closer at Aziraphale. “You okay, angel?”

Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, or even really present in the bookshop, but he heard that. “Mmm...” the angel said, a faraway look in his eyes.

_Why not now? No reason not to. There’s a gap in the conversation, perfect timing._

_Yes, but have you considered that I don’t want to?_

_Well, deal with it. You have to, right now, or you never will._

Aziraphale came back to himself to find Crowley watching him. “What? Oh, yes, I’m fine, my dear, perfectly fine.” _Tickety-boo._

He looked for a lie to fill the gap. “I was just thinking about Eden. How much has happened since then. So much that we couldn’t have ever imagined. That even _humans_ couldn’t have ever imagined. I was just wondering... what we would have made of all this. Back then.”

Crowley leaned back even more, further into the sofa, somehow, the epitome of leisure. “Hmm, dunno,” he said, eyes drifting into the middle distance. “We’d have been shocked, definitely. All that world-ending stuff, and us stopping it. And all the stuff humans have built. Cities, art, tech. And there’s so _many_ of them now. Hard to believe that back then there were only two. But I suppose there’s some things we wouldn’t have been surprised at.”

Sense trickled down through the angel’s drink-addled brain. He frowned. “Like what?”

“Uh, ah, well...” Crowley garbled noise at him, apparently caught off-guard. “Well, you know, basic stuff. Humans still being humans. Us still being stationed on Earth, maybe. Ugnh, us being friends.”

“What?” Aziraphale was pretty sure he’d heard that right. _Us being friends. Crawley, as he was back then, wouldn’t have been surprised... at us being friends?_

“Yeah, well, y’know. Angel gave his sword away, didn’t smite me on sight, generally seemed quite friendly and happy to chat... Y’know, makes an impression. Sssticks in your mind.”

The drunken angel in question couldn’t help but smile a little at the flustered demon. “That's very sweet, my dear.”

“’S not. ’Sss rational. Logical. Makes-sense-ical. ’M not _sweet_. Even if I’m not working for Hell anymore, ‘m not _sssweet_.”

Crowley had gone a little red, in a way that didn’t quite match his hair, but Aziraphale thought it suited him anyway. The angel searched laboriously through the racks of information in his mind and filed away ‘knew we’d be friends’ in the ‘makes Crowley flustered’ folder. He smiled happily at the demon, and let the companionable silence hang in the air for a while as his thoughts drifted.

Unfortunately, they drifted right back to what he didn’t want to have to do.

_Now. Do it now. Easy. Simple. Just... clear your throat. He’ll give you time. Just do it._

Crowley had gone back to nursing his umpteenth glass of red, eyes drifting around the bookshop in search of something to talk about.

_See? Perfect timing. Do it now._

Aziraphale made a noise as if he wanted to say something, then wavered. It would be so easy to just... not. To stay silent, or to fill the now-obvious pause with something else, random and meaningless, and carry on the same as always.

_Do it now. You never will, otherwise. You’ll fall back into the same routine, and it’ll be harder and harder to bring it up, so you’ll never do it. Do it now._

Crowley was watching him lazily, uncovered yellow eyes casually tracing the lines of the angel’s hair. There was no sharpness there, no harshness, no veiled tenseness, no _expectation_. He would be happy just to stay there, like this, all night, if Aziraphale let him.

_No, don’t let that thinking change your mind. He needs to know. Do it now._

He tried to decide whether it was better to do this drunk or sober. He hesitated for a moment, before compromising by half-sobering up. _Dutch courage._

He pulled himself upright in his seat. “Crowley, my dear,” he started.

“Hmm?”

“Do you...” _How to put this...?_ “Do you ever think about Before?”

“You mean other than whenever you bring it up and ask me about it?” Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush at being found out, but Crowley didn’t seem annoyed. “Sometimes.”

“Do you remember anything from then? Anything at all?”

“Not that I haven’t already told you,” Crowley said, and then he swung himself upright, out of the relaxed sprawl and into a sitting position, elbows on his knees, leaning towards Aziraphale.

The demon was looking at him with a soft intensity now, and the angel faltered. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“You do, though, don’t you?”

The question was asked so gently, with such tenderness, that Aziraphale didn’t even flinch. But he felt his breath catch and his blush deepen, and he didn’t know what to say.

_Of course he noticed, you weren’t exactly subtle. You kept asking the same question a hundred times over the course of several thousand years, he’s bound to realise at some point._

He couldn’t seem to say anything in the face of Crowley’s proximity and focus. So he nodded slightly, feeling the fear creep up his spine as he did so.

_I can’t ever tell him. I can’t ever tell him. I can’t ever tell him._

“I don’t blame you, angel. It’s okay. ’M not angry or upset or, or... or _betrayed_, or anything like that. I know that angels remember what demons were made to forget. It’s okay.”

To Aziraphale’s horror, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. _He still doesn’t know. He can’t ever know. There’s so much more to this._

_No. He _has_ to know. Tell him._

“I’m... I’m sorry,” he managed to choke out.

“Hey,” Crowley said, reaching out a hand to tentatively rest over the angel’s own. “It’s okay.”

Aziraphale froze. He looked down at the hand covering his own.

_It’s okay. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s allowed. They’ll leave us alone. We... We can do this._

_We’re on our own side._

Slowly, Aziraphale looked upwards and found Crowley’s eyes, looking patiently into his own.

“It’s okay,” the demon said again, and now Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the remembering or the contact or both.

_I love you._

“I need to tell you something,” Aziraphale blurted, and Crowley just nodded.

“I know.” He squeezed the angel’s hand. “Take your time. We’ve got plenty of it.” He grinned softly, then gently relinquished his grip and leant back against the sofa again, one arm casually slung over the back.

The absence of Crowley’s skin against his own felt like a vacuum, like the sudden encroachment of cold, dark space where there had just been the warmth of a summer’s day. He paused, trying to make his brain function.

_I want... No, I can’t –_

_Yes. I can do this now. _We_ can do this now. If he... If he wants to._

“Ah...” Aziraphale rose from his chair. “Could...” His hands were twisting in front of him, fingers intertwined and pulling at each other. _Just ask. Worst he can say is no. And then you’ll know where you stand, at least._

“Could I...” He couldn’t make the words come. So he gestured awkwardly to the space on the sofa next to Crowley, the gap on the cushions framed on one side by the demon himself, on another by his arm across the back of the sofa.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, yeah – yeah, course, angel. Whatever you want.”

Slowly, so slowly, Aziraphale crossed the small space and sat down on the sofa next to Crowley. He left a little gap between them, just in case, but not much. He could feel his hands shaking, and clasped them together tight in his lap.

At this angle, he didn’t have to look at Crowley. He fixed his gaze on the floor in front of his own feet, and tried to pretend he was alone. _Just tell him. Just be honest._

“Yes.” The word sounded firmer and more certain than Aziraphale felt. “Yes, I do remember Before. I...” He sighed, and let himself fall back into memories.

“I remember Heaven as it was then. I remember the prototypes of creation, before Earth was made. I remember the way everything looked and felt, the test swatches they made of bark and leaves, the different ways that fur could feel, the draft blueprints of the Universe. You showed those to me, once. Star maps, that you were following to create the constellations. They were beautiful.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “We... knew each other. Up there.”

Crowley didn’t ask in what sense. [26] He just waited, patiently, as he always did.

“I didn’t want to say anything, because...” Aziraphale took another deep breath, trying to organise his thoughts. “Well, you see, they got it wrong. About you.”  
Aziraphale realised that Crowley had stopped breathing.

_It’s almost like he isn’t there. See? Easy. No one’s listening. This is just practice. You can do it. Keep going._

“They told us – before I was stationed in the Garden, this was, when Heaven was suddenly very empty and no one really knew what had just happened or where everyone had gone – they told us you didn’t exist anymore. They told us you had _died_, before that was a word anyone understood. They told us that everything that you once were, every part of you that made you _you_ had been... shrivelled up. Burned away.”

Aziraphale wasn’t in the bookshop anymore. He wasn’t on a sofa with Crowley next to him – he was in a crowd in Heaven, among more angels than ever normally gathered in one place, and yet nowhere near as many angels as there should have been. He was in a crowd without the one being he wanted to be beside, and his eyes were still desperately searching the space for any glimpse of red hair, any flash of a yellow stare, any hint of that wonderful grin. He was searching, searching, searching, even as the Metatron announced what had happened to the Fallen, even as Gabriel described what demons were, even as Michael decreed the denizens of Hell as Heaven’s sworn enemies. He was wandering the halls, now, and finding the truth of the thing – a name that didn’t belong to its owner anymore, a signifier of what was lost: the mind behind the flaming hair and the golden eyes and the beautiful smile.

“You were _gone_,” he choked out, and suddenly his cheeks were dripping and his eyes were blurry and he didn’t have time to care because the memories – oh Lord the _memories_ – were crushing him from the inside out.

“You were gone, and I could never see you again, never even say goodbye. But you wouldn’t _look_ like you were gone, and that was the worst of it. I might still see you, if we both happened to be on Earth at once, but you wouldn’t know me. You wouldn’t...” He swallowed. _Not yet._ “You wouldn’t _remember_ me.”

He scrubbed a hand across each cheek in turn, the fingers of his other hand fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat.

“And then I got posted to Earth. Eden. And they warned me, they trained me for it. ‘He’ll look like him but it won’t _be_ him, it will _never_ be him, that person doesn’t exist anymore.’ And I believed it. I didn’t know how likely it was for me to see you, but I listened and I trained and I was ready. I... I thought I was ready.”

Crowley was silent. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or not, but he kept going anyway.

“And then you just... came up to me. Started talking, being all... friendly. And you clearly didn’t recognise me, but you also weren’t... well, particularly _evil_, as far as I could tell. You weren’t _obedient_, I could see that – all those questions, about God’s plan, and planting trees on the moon and whatever else you were saying.”

He let a little laugh break through the pain, but he didn’t dare let his eyeline flick towards Crowley.

“But then you’d _always_ been like that, being curious and talkative and asking questions that got you into trouble, and I had to wonder...”

He rubbed at his cheeks again, almost angry with the tears, and sniffed loudly.

“I thought maybe they were wrong. I questioned everything, in that moment, because I knew better. I knew you better than Heaven did, and I _knew_ they were wrong. But I didn’t... I couldn’t...”

_Didn’t what? Couldn’t what? I was pathetic, that’s what it was. I didn’t say anything, because I trusted Heaven more than you, and that was misplaced if anything ever was. But I didn’t want to Fall. And that... that’s it, isn’t it? I was scared. I was selfish. I was pathetic._

“I told myself I was wrong,” he said. “I was useless. I should have realised, right then, that _Heaven_ was wrong and demons were still who they were, and _you_ were still who _you_ were, and you weren’t inherently evil or incapable of good or anything other than the angel that I –”

A choking cry cut him off before he could finish that perilously truthful sentence. And then a soft, warm presence was coiling around him from one side, pushing gently enough to tip him sideways, just a little, and before he could react he’d been pushed into a firm surface – and it was Crowley, of course it was Crowley, and Aziraphale was leaning against him now, wrapped in his arms, sobbing like he would never be able to stop.

The demon shifted in his seat, pulling Aziraphale nearer and tentatively reaching round to rub comfortingly at his back. Aziraphale could barely stand it. It was loving and tender and wonderful and _too close, too much, too dangerous_, but there was no way in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth that he was going to ask him to stop.

“Hey, hey, shh,” Crowley murmured. “It’s okay. ’S not your fault. It’s okay.” Aziraphale felt a slight pressure on the top of his head, and realised that Crowley had rested his chin there. “’Sss okay. _We’re_ okay. I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale was clinging on tight to something, his hands desperate for grounding. He wanted to curl up, hide himself away, make himself so small he would cease to exist, but he didn’t have the energy to even try. Instead he found himself with his face buried in Crowley’s neck, hidden from the rest of creation – but not from the demon.

The combination of Crowley’s quiet, calming words and his rhythmic stroking of the angel’s back eventually served to reduce the rate of Aziraphale’s tears and heartbeat. It was only when he was firmly into recovery from his crying that he realised the thing he was clinging to was Crowley; apparently his arms had snaked, unbidden, around the demon’s back while he was crying, and his fingers were now gripping Crowley’s clothing, tight and frantic, anchoring the two celestials together.

He stayed there a little longer, until his breathing had slowed back to normal, and then for a moment or two more – _greedy, pathetic, desperate, human_ – and then he carefully released Crowley and gradually drew away.

_It’s not over yet. Finish. Explain. He deserves to know._

Aziraphale couldn’t look him in the eye. He resumed his former position – feet flat on the floor, hands tight in his lap, eyeline to the ground. But somehow Crowley was closer this time. His corporation pressed lightly against Aziraphale’s side, legs touching all the way to the knee, a small cushion of warm air between their bodies where the proximity held it in place. _Don’t think about it. Just tell him._

“I’m sorry it took me so long to believe you were still you,” he said firmly, ignoring the waver in his voice. “And I’m sorry that even when I did, I didn’t say anything. I was... worried about how you would react to us having known each other in Heaven, and to you not remembering any of it. I... I don’t know what I thought would happen. Well, I do, but I imagined about a thousand versions of the same thing, and they’re all bad, and I don’t know which is more probable, so...”

He trailed off, and risked a look at Crowley. The demon’s eyes were wide – wide open, yes, but the irises were also bigger than usual for a human. Some part of Aziraphale’s mind wondered, in a detached sort of way, whether they had been fully yellow a moment ago, blown wide by the emotion of the situation.

He looked away again, staring instead at the hands clasped in his lap. He took a breath.

“I’ll understand if... what I’m about to tell you is disappointing, or confusing, or...” He didn’t know what else to add. “Or anything. I’ll understand. But I just need you to know, because I can’t keep hiding it. I _have_ to tell you. And if you want to... to be alone for a while, to digest everything, or if you don’t want to... to... come back here. Then that’s fine.”

“Angel,” Crowley said softly, and Aziraphale felt the gentle pressure of a soothing hand on his back. “I don’t think anything you could say about us in Heaven would make me want to leave.”

Aziraphale could feel tears bubbling up in his eyes again, but he twitched a hand to angrily miracle them away. “You don’t _know_, you don’t...”

He had to say it, had to be honest, he knew he did. But it was too much – the pressure of a possible future about to be destroyed, the fear of wonderful memories tainted by disgust, the... what was that phrase? The mortifying ordeal of being known. Yes; right now, that was exactly it.

Aziraphale stood up and strode across the room, putting some distance between Crowley and himself. He turned to look back at the demon: at his flame-red hair, shining in the warm light of the bookshop; at his forcefully relaxed posture, hiding his anxiety from everyone except the angel who knew him best; at his beautiful yellow eyes, watching with concern as Aziraphale fretted in a corner of the room.

He couldn’t hold the gaze. He looked away, looked at his hands, at the floor, at the shelves around him, at anything but the being on the sofa.

“Please don’t hate me,” the angel said, his voice small and helpless.

“Never,” Crowley breathed.

He dared a look up – and oh, that earnestness, that honesty. He looked so open and sure, so truthful and certain. Aziraphale believed him in that moment, wholeheartedly. _Trust him. Tell him. Now._

“I... I love you. I always have, even though I didn’t want to for the longest time. And... in Heaven we were... together. Partners. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to change anything about our relationship now, or if you need some distance, some time, and I won’t let it... _affect_ anything, if you don’t want it to, I just... needed to say it.”

When Aziraphale looked up again, Crowley had sat forward on the sofa, all trace of feigned relaxation gone. His eyes looked wild, and his mouth was open in a perfect ‘O’.

There was silence for a minute. Aziraphale felt like he was going to collapse in on himself, implode like a black hole.

And then in a move so fast he may well have miracled it, Crowley was across the room and in front of Aziraphale. Right in front of him, chest to chest, so _close_.

“Say it again. Please.”

The angel looked up into the demon’s eyes, momentarily unsure.

_“I gave it away!” “You what?”_

_“Lucky I was in the area.”_

_“Perhaps one day we could... go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”_

“I love you.”

There was another stunned silence for a moment. And then Crowley beamed with a smile brighter than any Aziraphale had ever seen in his life. [27]The angel had never seen him so radiant.

“I love you too, angel.”

_What? No, you don’t. How could you?_

Aziraphale broke the eye contact. “No, I... You...”

_What are you doing?! Don’t say no, not now. He knows! He’s happy about it! He said it back!_

_But he can’t... Why would he...?_

_I just... I have to be sure._

“But I lied to you. I didn’t tell you about us. I didn’t trust you enough when I should have known better. I sided with Heaven, every time, right until almost the end of everything. I was _horrible_ to you, I –”__

_ __ _

Crowley cut him off. “I know. But you had reasons for all of that. And it happened, and I _know_, and after all that... I still feel the same. Same as I always have.”

_ __ _

He reached a hand to cup Aziraphale’s cheek, tilting his face ever so slightly upwards. The angel let him, and followed the new direction of his eyeline. Wide golden irises that drowned out any hint of white met with his own blues, and they were the most gorgeous eyes he had ever seen.

_ __ _

Even counting the ones that had come before these.

_ __ _

“I love you, Aziraphale. I have right from Eden, even if I didn’t realise it yet, and apparently I did long before that, too. And I forgive you, even though you don’t really need it.” His throat bobbed, and Aziraphale glanced at it, and another realisation slowly, distantly, ticked through the angel’s brain.

_ __ _

“You are perfect,” Crowley continued. “Even if you hide away from everyone half the time, and run a shop that you never want anyone to buy things in, and do terrible magic tricks that don’t work when you could just miracle it right, and lie about anything and everything, and... Ngh, you’re perfect _because_ of all that. I... I can’t...” With a pained sigh, the demon rested his forehead against the angel’s. “I really want to kiss you right now. Would that be okay?”

_ __ _

_Holy FUCK._

_ __ _

Aziraphale’s brain short-circuited, and the next thing he knew he had pushed forwards, his chest against Crowley’s, his hands clinging to the front of the demon’s jacket, and his lips against those of the being he loved most in all creation.

_ __ _

_It wasn’t a black hole,_ he realised abstractedly. _It was a supernova._

_ __ _

The kiss was both soft and urgent, a thousand years long and far, far too short, and they broke apart after hardly any time at all. They were both breathing like they’d just run to a soon-closing bakery and back, and they rested their foreheads together again, breathlessly gazing into each other’s eyes.

_ __ _

After a giddy minute of staring at each other, ridiculous grins plastered over both their faces, Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He learned in again, and Crowley followed suit, and they kissed. It was slower this time, soft and loving and _delicious_. It was longer, too. By the time they broke apart, Aziraphale had no idea what century it even was. Would he have noticed if another six millennia and an almost-Apocalypse had gone by? Probably not.

_ __ _

Crowley, it seemed, couldn’t look away from him. Aziraphale traced the lines of the demon’s face with his eyes, memorising every inch of this moment.

_ __ _

_I did this once before. Stared at you, learned every atom of you, in case I never saw you again. I’d already lost you once. Now it seems I’ve found you again._

_ __ _

The memory of a mantra, rendered null and void, passed through the angel’s mind. It would have to be re-written now.

_ __ _

_I am in love with Crowley. Crowley is in love with me. He knows, and the world didn’t end._

_ __ _

_Well, the world didn’t end, and now he knows. Hardly related points, really._

_ __ _

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself but smile, and Crowley grinned back at him with dizzy joy, and their lips met again in the middle.

_ __ _

_Who needs Heaven?_ Aziraphale thought wildly. _Who needs Paradise? This is perfection, right here – this is happiness and joy and everything I could ever need._

_ __ _

They could have just stayed there and kissed forever, if they'd wanted to. But eventually they fell onto the sofa instead, limbs entwined around each other, and lay there for a while in each other’s arms.

_ __ _

_Yes,_ Aziraphale thought delightedly. _This is perfection._

_ __ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22 A surprising proportion of Aziraphale’s immediate mental responses to certain situations involved swearing or blasphemy, considering he wasn’t in the habit of using either out loud. Spoken, they were reserved for very, very rare occasions, the words having far too much emotional power to be over-used. Internally, though, they were very much part of his vocabulary. [return to text]
> 
> 23 Self-deception had always been a strong suit of Aziraphale’s. [return to text]
> 
> 24 They had the same wings, just a different colour. They had the same incorporeal essence that could be housed in a corporation. They were both functionally immortal, unaging throughout the millennia. They both had only one sure-fire way to kill them – either a substance of purest holiness, or the epitome of unholy power. They could both possess people, as Aziraphale himself had proved. And now they had combined and switched places, essences twisting and curling alongside one another, perfect mirrors of symmetrical power.  
If Aziraphale had any lingering uncertainty over who Crowley was, it was finally, _finally_ gone. He was a demon, who was once an angel, and those two beings were the same person, no matter what had been forgotten or changed in between.  
But that would only make it harder to tell him the truth. [return to text]
> 
> 25 He failed to accurately mimic the action, which was probably for the best. Stage-acting tends to be far more over-the-top than television or film acting, due to its need to be recognised by a far larger audience, which makes it very odd-looking in close proximity. Fortunately, Aziraphale’s own deficiency in the acting department – other than a passable replication of the mannerisms of one particular demon – produced a far more subdued version of the intended melodramatic sigh Hamlet had given in the specific performance the angel was thinking of, which ironically – or, perhaps, miraculously – ended up being rather convincing. [return to text]
> 
> 26 ‘In the Biblical sense’ as a phrase doesn’t really apply here. Sex is a very Earthly thing, and not one that existed at all for celestial beings prior to their encapsulation within human-like corporations. So Crowley didn’t need to ask that. He could have asked whether Aziraphale meant ‘as acquaintances’ or ‘as colleagues’ or ‘as friends’ or ‘as partners’, but he didn’t. Because he didn’t need to ask that, either. [return to text]
> 
> 27 Brighter, even, than most of Aziraphale’s own smiles at Crowley, and that was saying something. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**  
Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten the note Aziraphale left for Crowley in the top of the holy water. I wanted to squeeze it in at the end there, but it didn’t seem to quite fit, so that’s a thing for the epilogue. Also I kept having Ideas, and they wouldn’t all fit (this chapter is over 15k as it is), so an epilogue seemed sensible.
> 
> Further reading: [this excellent meta](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/189104171616/ineffable-endearments-ileolai-thinking-about) about Aziraphale in Crowley’s flat for the first time, and [this adorable ficlet](https://perfectlyineffable.tumblr.com/post/190699505989/angel-and-serpent-aethelflaedladyofmercia) about Aziraphale’s magic.
> 
> I also just wanted to leave a note here for everyone having a weird time at the moment. I know with the global situation being what it is, you might be scared, nervous, worried, confused, or all of those things, or something else entirely. You might be struggling with not being able to see those you care about, you might feel drained and less creative/productive than you’d hoped, and I want you to know I see you. Lockdown has been a weird time for me, too, and some days/weeks have been more productive than others. (Most of this chapter was written prior to lockdown, for reference, and it’s been weeks and I've only just gotten around to posting.)  
I hope you’ve found some small piece of happiness and escape in these words if you need it, and I want you to know that I’m with you and I love you.


	12. Epilogue: The Time Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter I didn’t think I was going to write, but... it got away from me, yeah.
> 
> Featuring an unanswered question or two, and some memories worth sharing.
> 
> _(Btw, if you’re interested, I posted [an alternate version](https://freyjawriter24.tumblr.com/post/616467015080738816/freyjawriter24-reading-back-through-my-notes-and) of Aziraphale’s realisation/the bit just before his confession to Crowley in Chapter 11 on tumblr. Give it a read and let me know what you think!)_
> 
> Thank you all again so, so much for reading along, and all your comments and kudos. I love you all.

Of course, there were questions. There were always questions. It was kind of Crowley’s thing, after all, and now that Aziraphale had been released from the fear of what would happen if he asked a few too many of his own, he found that there were plenty to ask.

The first was posed that night, in the aftermath of it all, as they lay curled in each other’s arms on the sofa.

“So, ah... How do you know Sergeant Shadwell, then?”

Crowley had pulled back a little to look at Aziraphale’s face, then rolled his eyes at the expression he saw. “Oh, you know already, you smartarse.”

“Do I?” Aziraphale had asked innocently.

“Look, I said they weren’t particularly sophisticated,” Crowley said. “And he’d given me plenty of actual help over the years. How was I meant to know?” He had paused for a second, then playfully jabbed Aziraphale in the ribs. “And you didn’t either!”

“Touché,” he said primly.

And then they had both laughed, because how could they not? They were alive, and they were together, and they were _happy_. Truly, completely _happy_. For the first time in a long, long time.

“I love you,” Aziraphale had whispered into Crowley’s neck.

“I love you too, angel,” the demon had whispered back.

***

Another question, a week or so later, required more preparation, more preamble, more fumbling around the point.

They were sat in the bookshop again, the evening drawing in outside the windows. They were on the sofa together, side by side – itself a miracle, itself a rebellion – just talking, just enjoying each other’s company.

“I, ah... I don’t suppose it matters now, but... Did you...” The angel had to take a breath or two before he got the words out. “Did you see my note? Did you read it?”

Crowley stilled. The angel beside him swallowed, wavering on the edge of calling back his question, refusing to let Crowley answer it, apologising for the pain he had evidently caused.

“Yesss,” the demon rasped eventually. “Yeah, angel, I saw it. I read it.”

Aziraphale hated himself for pressing further, but he had to know. “And?”

Crowley swallowed and reached for the angel’s hand. Aziraphale let him take it and twine their fingers together, and didn’t say a word when the demon gripped tight.

“I was in a rush, so I didn’t...” Crowley reached up with his free hand and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his long fingers dancing over his eyes as if he wished his currently-absent sunglasses were still in place. “It was in the lid. It fell out, and it was folded up, and I knew what it had to be, and I didn’t have _time_, not right then – because Hastur and Ligur were coming, and I needed to work quickly, and I...”

The demon took a breath, and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand even tighter. The angel nodded and squeezed back, softly encouraging. Crowley wasn’t looking at him; his gaze was pointed at the floor, but his golden eyes had glazed over, hovering somewhere in the middle distance.

“I kept it. Put it away, in a pocket, because I had to focus. And then Ligur happened, and you rang but I couldn’t talk, and I was running from Hastur, and then I got out and came here – I came straight here, to the bookshop, and it was on _fire_...”

He had told this part of the story before – quietly, steadily, with a large amount of alcohol in his system and the still-present threat of obliteration hanging over him. This time it was different. This time his eyes were glassy and damp-looking, his voice strained and emotional, his grip on Aziraphale’s hand desperate and terrified. Something clenched hard in the angel’s chest, and he wanted to launch himself at Crowley, hold him close and stroke his hair and tell him it was all okay, that they were fine, both of them, that it was all okay.

He offered that, in his own way. He placed his other hand gently over their two clasped ones, and Crowley glanced over at the new touch for an instant, pulled from the memory for a moment. Aziraphale squeezed both their hands, then made a small gesture that perhaps only Crowley would have recognised. The demon nodded, shifted slightly closer on the sofa, and then gently tilted his head until it was rested on Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel rearranged their hands and put his free arm around the Serpent of Eden’s back, holding his entire corporation from this angle.

“I didn’t know what to do, angel,” Crowley said, his voice low and shaking. “You weren’t _there_. I couldn’t _sense_ you, anywhere, at all.” He swallowed and cleared his throat, nestling closer against Aziraphale as he did so.

“I got out of there,” he continued, the words stronger now. “I got in the Bentley, and I drove, and I didn’t know where I was going, or care, I just drove. And then I saw a sign, and I stopped driving, I just pulled up and left the car there, I didn’t care, and I went inside. Ordered spirits by the bottle, and just drank. I didn’t... I _couldn’t_... keep going. Without you. I just...” He trailed off, and Aziraphale hugged him closer still, reminding him that _it’s okay now, I’m here, I’m alive, we’re both okay and alive here together, it’s fine. We’re going to be alright._

“And then I remembered the note.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach dropping into an abyss somewhere ten miles below his feet. _Oh. Oh, no._

He remembered the words he had written on that small scrap of paper, all those years ago. He shut his eyes for an instant, remembering the feeling of the pen in his hand as he wrote, the sensation of the desk beneath his fingers as he folded it, the fear of the water as he fitted the note inside the lid. He remembered his own terror in what he was about to do, and saw it reflected horribly back at him in the demon’s words.

_Oh, Crowley. No..._

When he opened his eyes again, a piece of folded paper had materialised in Crowley’s free hand. It looked as new as the day he’d written it, and yet it wasn’t the same, either. It was stained, ever so slightly, by a now-dried smear of water on one side. Only an expert in old papers and the various ways in which they can be damaged would have recognised the mark instantly. Aziraphale was, unfortunately, exactly that person.

It was a tear stain.

“Crowley, I am so, _so_ sorry.” Aziraphale freed his hand from Crowley’s fingers and wrapped his other arm around the demon’s skinny frame, hugging him sideways with all the force of love he could muster – a rather substantial amount that in all probability would have cracked the bones of anyone mortal. Crowley clung back in return, turning his face into Aziraphale’s neck and sobbing quietly for a moment.

“It was the last thing I had of you,” the demon said into the angel’s shoulder. “That and the damn book. And I’d hung up on you – that was the last thing I’d done. You’d _realised_, you’d tried to _tell me_ what you knew, and I just... hung up. And then I didn’t get there fast enough, and you’d _gone_...”

The note had been abandoned on Crowley’s lap, and as he shook, it slid off, fluttering open as it fell to the floor. The words inside stared back up at Aziraphale, lettering in his own hand that had kicked Crowley when he was down. Words written with the intent to stop the demon drinking the accompanying flask’s contents, given a terrible mirroring quality by circumstance.

_‘Please be careful. I don’t think I could bear to live without you.’_

Aziraphale held the weeping demon to him, refusing to let go, knowing no power in Heaven or Hell could stop him right then. He shut his eyes again for an instant, fighting against the pressure in his own chest and throat, and then turned his lips to Crowley’s hair, and set kisses and whispers of love there.

_My darling, my love, I’m so sorry. I never meant for that. I love you so much. I only didn’t want you to hurt yourself. I’m so sorry._

The angel held his demon all night, whispering love to him and fighting off the fears. Crowley cried, and then he quietened, still clinging to Aziraphale, and then they cuddled there on the sofa, soft fingers playing gently with red hair, until Crowley drifted off into a dreamless, protected sleep.

***

There were other questions, of a happier nature. _How long?_ being one, _since when?_ The answer was easy and yet difficult, definite and yet vague. _How long have I loved you, or how long have I known?_

There were simpler ones, too. _Would you like some tea? Shall I read to you? Can I hold your hand?_

There were tentative ones – _Do you want to miracle a bed for yourself upstairs? Would save you sleeping on the sofa on nights like these_ – and there were more certain ones – _Will you kiss me?_ – and there were ones that were questions that almost didn’t sound like questions at all – _It would be nice to get away for a while. Spend some time in the country, out of the city. In a little cottage, perhaps. Just the two of us..._

And then there was the one that was asked under cover of night, when they were curled up together and Aziraphale had thought Crowley was about to fall asleep again, when the lights inside were all turned down and the lights outside were shut away by the blinds, and everything was calm and still and perfect.

“What was it like Before?”

Aziraphale said nothing for a moment. Then he asked, “Heaven?”

“No,” Crowley said quietly. “Well, yes. But I mean... us.”

The angel nodded, and tried to gather his thoughts. _Where do I even begin?_

“It was simpler,” he started. Then he frowned. “No, it wasn’t. Well, it _was_, in some ways, I suppose. But it was new. Everything was new, then. There was no one keeping us apart, no sides to speak of, but it was hard to put anything into words when the language hadn’t been created yet. And that meant... it was hard – all relative, of course, and it was Heaven, we weren’t used to hardship – but it was hard to know whether you were making yourself understood. Whether you... whether the feeling was truly mutual.” He swallowed, and squeezed Crowley tighter for a moment. “Once that was all out of the way, it was plain sailing, but that wasn’t long before... Well, things changed,” he finished abruptly.

There was silence for a while, and then – even quieter than before – Crowley’s voice murmured into the dark.

“I wish I could remember.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I know. And I’m sorry I can’t give your memories back to you, I really am. I wish I could show you mine.”

Crowley’s corporation stiffened in Aziraphale’s arms, and the angel peered through the dimness towards the suddenly-wide yellow eyes.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“Could you?” Crowley asked, ignoring the question.

Aziraphale frowned. “Could I what?”

“Show me yours. Your memories. Heaven. Before.”

There was a rush of feeling, all at once. _Yes, of course! No, would that work? Oh Crowley, you brilliant, beautiful thing. Oh my love, could you bear it?_

“I... perhaps?” The angel considered carefully the mechanics of the thing. “You’d have to be open to it, I should think. We can’t affect celestials in the same way we can humans, so you’d have to open up, somehow.”

“Like we did before...” Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale remembered the rush of corporations switching piece by piece, the stillness of a moment outside of time, the thrilling proximity of another being with no barrier between.

“Yes, my dearest. I think that would work.” He took a breath. “Would you like to try now?”

“Yesss,” the answer came, nervous and excited in equal measure. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a minute, choosing carefully. Then he leant over the demon in his arms and pressed a soft kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

***

_They were in an open area, a wide space that was all whiteness and softness, with no walls or ceiling or ground to speak of. Everything looked like it was made of cloud, perhaps, or made of nothing at all. It was light, like bright daylight, the kind that looked warm, felt comfortable, was hardly noticeable as anything aside from quietly perfect._

_“Lovely to meet you, Aziraphale,” an angel was saying._

_The being looking out of Aziraphale’s eyes did a double take, even as his lips returned a gentle “Likewise.” Because before him was a face that was at once familiar and jarringly different. One that he’d spent plenty of time living in, and yet had no memory of seeing before at all. One that felt real and natural and yet surreal and uncanny at the same time._

_Crowley was inhabiting Aziraphale’s body again, but this time as a corporation-less being in Heaven Before. And he was looking back at himself as an angel._

_The hair was almost the same. Brighter, if anything, a more vivid shade of red, without the soot-stained darkness that would come later. The tattoo was gone, or rather not there yet. And the angles of his face were the same._

_But the eyes... These were his eyes without the slashes of Hell in them, without that snake-form slit of a pupil bisecting the yellow. And they _were_ still yellow, even then. But here, it looked different – here, it was the glittering gold of a million stars, the colour of the sun and the dandelions on a spring day, the gilt joy of a smile so powerful, he’d only ever known one being in all of creation who was trusted to wield that power._

_In this form, in this memory, Crowley didn’t have a heart. But it ached, all the same, for everything here that he’d had, that he’d lost. He watched as the angel he had used to be opened his mouth again and spoke, a soft smile easy on his lips._

_“I hope we’ll see each other around again soon.”_

_“Me too,” Crowley felt himself – no, Aziraphale – say._

_And then both angels turned away and the memory faded._

***

Aziraphale held the demon for the moment it took for the memory to run its course. Crowley came out of it with a jolt, shaking a little in the aftermath.

“Angel?” he gasped.

“I’m here, dearest, I’m here.” The angel pressed a kiss to his temple, his hair, his cheek. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I...” Crowley trailed off for a second, and then said, in a voice too full of emotion to be as quiet as it was, “that was _me_.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed. “It was.”

Neither of them said anything for a while, each clinging to the other in silence, each spending a little time in their own thoughts. Then, when they were both ready, they tried it again.

***

_The memories came like dreams, flashes of thought that drifted from one to the other, no sense of chronology, no sense of time. Crowley experienced each in turn, through the eyes of Aziraphale, with only the barest hint of when each took place. The angel gifted each memory to him as they came, as he thought of them, while he held the demon steady in the world outside his mind._

_There was a tree, in the centre of the open cloud-space, and they were watching it grow. Seasons ticked past as they stared, enraptured by the process. Bare branches sprouted green, grew full and thick leaves that got darker and bolder, more verdant before their eyes. Blossom sprouted, soft pink between the green, and suddenly that was the colour of the whole tree, the flowers almost completely obscuring the leaves in their abundance._

_They were laughing, both of them. Aziraphale glanced at the angel who Crowley had been only a couple of times as he watched the transformation, but each time he did, that angel was looking back at him, a gentle look on his face that Crowley recognised in his bones. _Love. Trust. Adoration._ Aziraphale didn’t seem to see it – perhaps unaware, perhaps too focused on the newness of the tree before him, or perhaps this was old news by now, perhaps they were already together._

_No, they weren’t. If they were, Crowley knew he would have reached out for Aziraphale’s hand, would have planted a gentle kiss on those soft, glowing cheeks as he laughed. There was a distance between them as they watched the tree, an uncertain border that was yet to be crossed. Crowley knew intimately the feeling of that, too._

_A gentle breeze came by, newly conjured out of the ether of Heaven, and the petals of the blossoms on the tree began to fall. Without thought, without looking around, Aziraphale’s wing swooped up and over, protecting the other angel from the soft pink snow. Crowley – both then and now – was floored, and Aziraphale didn’t even notice; didn’t see, from the corner of his eye, the blush that crept into the other angel’s cheeks, didn’t see the deepening of his expression, didn’t notice the hand that moved slightly, ever so slightly, towards him, before being pulled abruptly back. Aziraphale laughed as the blossoms landed on him, sticking in his feathers and his hair, and only then did he look properly at his friend, protected by the curve of his own wing. Crowley wished this was his own memory, wished he could see and treasure the sight of Aziraphale laughing and crowned with the first blossoms in creation – but at least he could see the effect of this view in his own face. Finally, Aziraphale noticed it too._

_“What?” he asked, lightly and only slightly concerned. The voice of one who has never known distress or discomfort or fear._

_“Nothing,” the red-haired angel said back. “Only... you look beautiful.”_

_“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could feel his cheeks warm as if they were his own. “Thank you.”_

_The petals and the tree dissolved, and now they were in a darker place, one where the cloud-form of heaven was a rich, deep blue. Red hair cascaded over slim shoulders, bony fingers spread out across a flat surface that was littered with golden dots and lines and tiny writing._

_“Here it is, see?” he heard his own voice say, softer and more melodic than it was on Earth or in Hell, but his all the same. “The idea is that we spin them in perfect balance, so they’re always held together by their own gravity.”_

_Crowley belatedly recognised what he was looking at as he felt Aziraphale beam. _Star maps._ “That’s wonderful!”_

_“It really is.” The flame-haired angel looked over at him, golden eyes wide with excitement and pride, and Aziraphale swallowed suddenly at the force of that look. Crowley could hardly bear it._

_“This’ll be the nearest one to Earth, once it’s done,” the angel continued. “They two of them will be so close together – and so far from Earth – that the humans will only see it as a single point of light. But it’s really two, dancing around one another, orbiting one another, for eternity.”_

_“That’s beautiful,” Aziraphale said, quieter now, lower. His eyes were fixed on Crowley’s – no, _not_ Crowley’s, the angel’s – and the space between the two of them suddenly seemed so very little, so very not enough._

_“Gorgeous,” not-Crowley agreed, and then the memory faded._

_They were in a place with many other angels – bright and white and open again – and Aziraphale was alone. Crowley watched through his eyes as a sword was pulled from a sheath and held perfectly steady in Aziraphale’s hand. The other angels around were also armed, Crowley realised, each practicing swinging their own weapons either alone or with a partner. Aziraphale swung his at empty space, slashing and parrying and stabbing outwards at nothing._

_“Aziraphale!” someone called._

_Crowley’s gaze flicked up as the named angel’s eyes did, and came to rest on a bright, weapon-less angel that was rushing towards him, long wavy hair streaming after, eyes and smile radiant._

_Aziraphale’s sword, for a moment pointed directly at the angel who Crowley used to be, was sheathed again. “Oh, hello, my dear!”_

_Crowley didn’t miss the slight widening of his own eyes. _Perhaps that was the first time he called me that,_ he thought. Then he felt Aziraphale’s hands clench into tight, nervous fists at his sides, and knew he was right._

_“Come on, I want to show you something,” not-Crowley said breathlessly, and Crowley saw what was going to happen seconds before it did. He saw the rapid dart-down of the red-haired angel’s eyes just as he felt Aziraphale’s hands relax in relief. He saw the hesitation in not-Crowley’s face, then the determination, then the forced calm that settled there as the angel reached out for one of Aziraphale’s hands and tugged him along, back the way he’d come._

_Angels didn’t need to breathe, of course. They didn’t even have lungs, not in this form. But Crowley was aware that Aziraphale wouldn't have been breathing anyway, the entire journey that he ran with the other angel holding tight to his hand._

_The memory reorganised itself as they arrived in a place open and white and cloud-like as the rest of Heaven, but this time with no one else around. Crowley wasn’t sure whether this memory was part of the previous one or not, whether this was the destination he’d been leading Aziraphale to, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the excitement on his own face, visible in the corner of Aziraphale’s vision, as he presented God’s newest creation to his friend._

_“This is a snake,” not-Crowley said, pride evident in his voice. “Obviously the humans will name it themselves when they see them for the first time, but ‘snake’ is the word we’re using for now.”_

_Now Crowley was the one who couldn’t have breathed if he wanted to. There, on the cloud-ground before them, wriggling as though it was moving but without going anywhere, was a snake. A black-scaled, red-bellied snake, the length of one of his arms._

This is what I look like. This is where that came from.

_Not-Crowley grinned at Aziraphale. “I came up with the design for it.”_

_Crowley could have choked._

_“You?” Aziraphale said, evidently surprised. “But you work in stars, my dear. How did that happen?”_

_“Well, I didn’t do any of the mechanics of it, of course,” not-Crowley clarified. “But I said, what is this obsession with limbs everyone in Life Creation seems to have at the moment? Four, six, eight, ninety-nine of them, why? Why not none at all? And Michael was with me, and she’s good friends with someone who actually works in Life Creation, so she introduced me to him. And I said, you made those lizard things, right? Why not something like that, but with no legs at all?”_

_“And he made it?”_

_“Well, he discussed it with a few others first, of course. The design had to be refined and approved by the higher-ups. But eventually... yeah.”_

_“Wow,” Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley agreed with the sentiment._ Wow indeed.

_Another memory. No words, no other angels or prototype creations around. Just the two of them, sat together, looking at one another. Their hands were clasped together between them, fingers interlocking, and that was _fascinating_ in and of itself. Aziraphale kept looking between their hands and not-Crowley’s golden eyes. Not-Crowley never once looked away from Aziraphale’s face._

_Another memory, or perhaps the same one. They were sat together again, closer now, and at some point they’d let go of each other’s hands, but that only meant that they could do other things with them now. Crowley felt the heat rise in Aziraphale’s cheeks as not-Crowley reached up and placed a warm, long-fingered hand gently on the side of the angel’s face, cupping it softly. Aziraphale slowly returned the gesture. They sat there a while, like that. And then both angels tilted their heads and pressed their foreheads together, resting their essences as closely together as possible. They sat like that forever, it seemed, until eventually the memory faded out._

***

Crowley gasped back into the real world, out of the memory, and Aziraphale held him close.

“Give me the rest,” he said, his voice pleading.

“All of it?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.

“Please.”

“My darling, I don’t want it to hurt you. I don’t want to...”

“Please, angel. Please. I need to know.”

***

_There were wing-touches. Hand-holding. Hugs and arms slung casually around shoulders. Smiles and laughter and uncertain silences. There were words, plenty of them, exchanged in hushed tones and nervous voices and breathless gasps._

_There were no kisses. Apparently humans had invented that._

_They went back to see the tree again, or perhaps it was the same memory as before, only this time the cycle had reached autumn, and the breeze was blowing again, and Aziraphale was reaching up to pluck leaves out of not-Crowley’s hair. Then the memory shifted into something later, elsewhere, and Aziraphale’s fingers were deep in the waves of red, deftly weaving it into little plaits or twisting it into coils, creating and unmaking with casual, intimate ease._

_Another occasion, much later, it must have been, and they were alone. Alone and together, open and vulnerable, close and tender. Crowley experienced the feeling of his own ruffled white feathers through Aziraphale’s fingers, and he felt the deep urge to do the same in person, to give and receive that most intimate contact in real life._

_Then there were more strained memories. Not-Crowley asking questions, and Aziraphale wriggling uncomfortably. “I don’t know, but I’m not sure you should be asking that.” Aziraphale watching from a distance as not-Crowley whispered animatedly with a small group of other angels, one among them recognisable as the angelic form of Beelzebub. Crowley back with Aziraphale again, in a place with many other angels, talking excitedly about what they’d discussed, and Aziraphale twisting his hands together in his lap as he tried, ineffectually, to get not-Crowley to keep his voice down._

_Crowley could see it happening, and there was nothing he could do. He wanted to reach out, place a hand on Aziraphale’s fidgeting fingers and still them with a few soft words, but he couldn’t. He wanted to whisper to the angel that it would all be okay, in the end, but he couldn’t. He wanted to warn not-Crowley, explain to him what could happen, what he would stand to lose, but this was just a memory. There was no way out of this. It had happened, and now he was watching it all over again._

_Heaven got darker during this time. It was only because Crowley was seeing it in flashes that he noticed, but it was definitely there – the pure-white light of the clouds drifted more certainly into grey as time went on, as the questions came more often and the confusion grew stronger._

_And then, suddenly, there was a great mass of angels all around him. Aziraphale was hemmed in on all sides by angels, all of them looking forwards, at a raised section of Heaven where a long-ago Gabriel stood, explaining what had just happened. Crowley felt his non-existent stomach drop._

_“They are not angels anymore. They are to be called demons, and they are not who they once were.”_

No, _Crowley thought fiercely, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Not that Aziraphale appeared to be listening anyway – his eyes were roaming around the crowd, searching frantically for a particular person. For red hair and yellow eyes, for a bright grin and friendly hands, and Crowley knew that he wouldn’t see them, knew for a fact that he was already gone, and yet he too was squinting, peering through the endless throng of angels, searching, searching, searching, for an angel who was no longer there._

_“God’s Plan is ineffable,” Gabriel was calling out. “Ineffable means it is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words. It should not be questioned. Demons are the ones who questioned the Ineffable Plan, and they have Fallen, and they will not be forgiven. Do not follow them.”_

_Then Michael was on stage, stony-faced and brandishing her own holy weapon. “Demons are the denizens of Hell. Hell is a place that is the antithesis to Heaven – it is all that is Bad and Evil, just as here is all that is Good. We are angels, and those who live in Hell are demons. As of now, the Fallen are our sworn enemies. Their goals are at odds to our own, and they should be thwarted wherever possible.”_

_Crowley didn’t think he could stand listening to this much longer, but luckily neither could Aziraphale. The memory dissolved, and Aziraphale was alone again, running through Heaven’s grey-tinged fog, cheeks damp and fists clenched, desperate._

_He skidded to a stop as a large flat surface materialised in front of him. Aziraphale paused, then, and stared. Names upon names upon names faced him, long lists of those who had Fallen, whose names were no longer theirs. Crowley’s throat felt dry, but he couldn’t swallow. He simply watched from Aziraphale’s eyes as the angel wandered the halls of Heaven, searching without wanting to for a name Crowley didn’t even know._

_A hand landed softly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the angel whirled around, a word crowding to the front of his mouth. But it died on his lips before he even spoke it – because the angel there wasn’t who he wanted to see, who he’d hoped against hope for a split second that he might have missed in that crowd._

_Michael gave a curt nod and released Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said._

_That was all, and all that was needed. Aziraphale dissolved into tears, crumbling at her feet, and then the memory shifted and he was alone, somewhere else, somewhere where the clouds were darker, more blue than grey, but he was still crying, still curled in a heap on the floor and sobbing._

_“Aziraphale,” Crowley tried to whisper, but his mouth was not his own, and he couldn’t get the words out. “Aziraphale,” he tried again, harder, louder, but still nothing happened. Still the angel rocked himself, weeping and alone, star maps spread around him and no star maker to show him the way._

_“AZIRAPHALE!”_

***

Crowley burst out of the memory and jumped to his feet, almost knocking Aziraphale flying. There was a click, and then the lights were on again, far too bright for a memory so dark, and Crowley was staring down at Aziraphale, eyes wild and streaming. The next instant he was on him, holding Aziraphale so tight the angel could barely breathe.

_I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry._

It took a while for Aziraphale to even figure out who was saying what, his emotions running too high for anything to make sense at all. But eventually the two of them stilled, the tears coming slower and less painfully hot, and the words still filtered softly from both of their mouths, whispered into ears and dropped into kisses, over and over and over from both of them.

_I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry._

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said eventually, breaking the pattern. “You’re okay. I’m okay. _We’re_ okay.”

Crowley groaned something wordless into the angel’s neck, and Aziraphale understood completely.

“I know. But that’s over now. It’s just a memory.”

***

The benefits of being a celestial, of living forever and having the capability to go anywhere and do anything, are wide and varied. But one notable one is mainly possible by virtue of having someone to experience it all with – being able to enjoy the world fully, as God intended.

“Do you remember that time in Ravenna?” Aziraphale asked.

“What, with Byron and Shelley and that lot?” Crowley asked, not looking up from his phone, which he was scrolling through as he lounged on the sofa in the back of the bookshop.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said placidly. “I was just rather thinking the weather today looks like it did back then.”

“Hmm?”

Aziraphale looked down at the demon, whose head was resting in his lap. He stroked a lock of hair out of Crowley’s face, and smiled as the phone vanished and those beautiful golden eyes looked up at him instead.

“I was just wondering, my dear, if you fancied going for a picnic.”

Crowley’s cheeks went pink. “Yesss, angel. That sounds lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done. It is over. It is finished.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed it!!!
> 
> Massive thank you again for everyone who’s read, commented, kudosed, reced, or otherwise interacted with this fic. You wouldn’t believe how motivating that is, especially in times like these, so I cannot express my gratitude enough. I love you all.
> 
> If you want to come and say hi on tumblr, I’m [freyjawriter24](https://freyjawriter24.tumblr.com/) there too. Thank you for sticking with me this long.


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